The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar

by Yury Tynyanov

  He didn’t beckon her, didn’t caress her. For some reason, his feelings for her had cooled after she got married. She was still his daughter, but after the marriage not once did she stroke his face.

  “Why are you standing here? Off you go.” He waved her away.

  “I don’t want my husband to leave,” said Zainab. “Let him stay.”

  “Get the hell out of here!”

  Samson got up and showed her his fist. It was not a khan who stood in the room, but a runaway sergeant-major, Samson Yakovlich.

  “Out!”

  Zainab stood there the same way as her Armenian mother used to, the one he had killed; she had recoiled but wouldn’t move.

  “I’ll kill you, bitch!” yelled Samson.

  He punched her on the shoulder and started to shake because he could no longer see anything; his fist went back and forward, as if of its own will, until he suddenly unclasped his fingers, grabbed her by the hair, and hurled her through the doorframe.

  Then, with his boot, he kicked her away from him and went stomping on through to Skryplev’s half of the house. He stood for a while at the brown calico studded door, wheezing, something rattling in his chest.

  He stopped by the door, clenched up, gathered himself together, and threw his fist at the door as if it were an empty space. The door did not budge an inch, so he stepped back in disgust, clenched up again, and walked away slowly, smashing the glass in the gallery as he went. He threw his fist at the glass again as if into empty space, and the glass splattered like water in a bowl.

  Having reached the last pane of glass, he dug into it with his elbow, because by then his hands were covered in blood.

  He stood at the end of the gallery, where it went on to form a balcony, and watched the blood dripping from his hands.

  The drops bubbled up on the scarlet palm of his hand, then trickled down his fingers and dripped off in thick rivulets.

  “Chickenherd,” he said quietly.

  14

  Almost a month had passed since the day when he had arrived in Tehran.

  The kuror would probably be paid.

  Essentially, he was first and foremost an honest and efficient official. He disapproved of Paskevich and Nesselrode, but he nevertheless had some respect for them. He might criticize them because he respected them. He might even be happy in his subordination to them: now that the Tehran mission had been accomplished—and quite successfully to boot—the eighth kuror would be received. His career was now certain to be on the rise. Faddei and his dear mother would be ecstatic. And he would never tell anyone about his fears.

  This was how it was all working out.

  And what was the Tehran mission, after all?

  Just a brief stay in the city of Tehran, some office diligence, some noble craving for heroic exploits in service to the state. And the exploits themselves were not even worth a mention—clerical work, for the most part.

  His mama, Nastasya Fyodorovna, was aware of his ambition. He was happy obeying orders. He was beginning to feel a craving to patronize others; he was eager to put in a word for Dr. Adelung being awarded the cross. He even wrote a very kindhearted letter about it to Paskevich. “He has not asked me for this favor, though when we were in Tiflis, Adelung was eager to be introduced to Your Excellency in person. He is known to all as a most right-minded, bright, and able man … These lines from my comedy now seem to me amusing:

  And when it comes to offering a job or an award,

  It’s only right that for relatives I should put in a word.”

  Sometimes he felt like joking that he should pay more attention to his own habits. He had noticed, for example, how the kindhearted Maltsov, as if it were God’s will, had reconciled himself to the fact that Griboedov would listen to a document absentmindedly and then make him repeat it. One of the chief’s little habits, as they say.

  That was the way he was. He started to assess his bearing and stature as if through other people’s eyes—a useful thing in Persian politics. He grew used to tailoring his every move in accordance with the peace treaty. The treaty was half his own work. But now it had grown to extraordinary dimensions; it was taken for granted as something that had to be observed.

  He felt rather irritated, as if some force compelled him to commit rash acts. For instance, he shouldn’t have sat so long in front of the shah—ten minutes would have been enough. What stupid carelessness. It was a miracle that he’d managed to get away with it. Only with the dervish had he committed a faux pas—everything else had been satisfactory. During the day, he forgave himself and was able to brush it off as his inexperience. But in general he adhered to the treaty. There had been official misunderstandings with Nesselrode, and the whole business might end in his dismissal.

  At night, he gazed at the furniture and at the rugs. And he prayed. Once he found himself in tears. That was the way he was. He was growing old too fast.

  15

  Close objects seemed somehow farther and farther away, and a day seemed as long as a year. Sashka had been beaten up at the bazaar—almost a year ago, was it?

  The air was thin and so rarefied that a step felt like a mile.

  The dastkhat for Samson’s extradition went ahead, along the slow, red-tape route, through paperwork and negotiations. Maltsov was in charge of both.

  Ensign Skryplev hung about the legation. Maltsov had entered into talks with him.

  Griboedov could easily await the resolution of the conflict in Tabriz.

  And yet he was wavering.

  16

  Finally, the shah gave him a farewell audience. Griboedov did not weary the old man any more. And the old man sent him the order of the Lion and the Sun of the first class, and the order of the second class to Maltsov and Adelung. The orders showed an exquisite craftsmanship.

  Rustam-bek and Dadash-bek were busy; the luggage was packed; the hammers pounded in the courtyard; the chests were nailed down; the harnesses were polished at the stables. A carriage was dragged into the courtyards, and the Cossacks washed it with soap and scrubbers very thoroughly, until it shone. Sashka stood over the rugs and beat the dust out of them slowly, sluggishly, as if inflicting insults.

  They were leaving Tehran the following day.

  17

  Griboedov was at Maltsov’s. In the last days of their work together, they went to each other on visits: from the third courtyard to the first. That made the Russian mission look like a noble’s estate whose masters were leaving for the city for the winter. Maltsov was to stay in Tehran to carry out some business affairs.

  Griboedov was saying something trivial when they heard the tramp of the marching soldiers’ feet and the sound of the drum. When the drum fell silent, they could hear only the marching. Suddenly a high-pitched, vibrato voice rang out somewhere not far off:

  A soldier’s solace …

  And the others caught it up evenly, as soldiers do, accompanied by their steps:

  A soulful friend …

  Griboedov gave a start. He listened in. The teaspoon he was lifting to his lips stopped midair, and he left the room, paying no attention to Maltsov or the doctor. He walked through the gate. The Cossacks saluted him. The sarbazes in their full dress uniforms were marching along the street. They strutted with their chests stuck out like Russian Guards, not like the Persian sarbazes, with their mouths agape. And their commander marched ahead of them, with his sword unsheathed, as if on parade. He was dressed in a sort of a navy blue Cossack uniform, with a golden belt, and had on a tall Persian hat. The thick braids adorned his epaulettes like those of a Russian general.

  He marched past the gate lightly and upright, and only squinted at the men standing at the gates. But he eyed Griboedov, and Griboedov eyed him.

  Soldiers, suntanned, young and old, were marching by. One of them smiled. His posture was splendid. On they went. The drum rolled again.

  So Samson and his battalion marched past him as if to say farewell, to sing goodbye.

  Griboedov felt ridiculed.


  He did not go back to Maltsov’s, where his tea was getting cold. He went to his own quarters in the back courtyard. He stood over his packed and locked suitcase for a while. The trunk was bursting with things.

  Griboedov thought for a little and stuck a little key in the lock. The lid of the suitcase flew up as if it had been waiting for that. Two books fell out. They had been stuck in a hurry on top of his shirts. He looked at them like old friends whom he had met at a bad time. One of them was de Gérando’s philosophy, the other an issue of The Herald of Europe. He leafed through it aimlessly. Prince Igor or The War with the Cumans, an essay by N. S. Artsybashev.

  He quickly delved into the depths of the suitcase, pulled out some papers. He looked through them, sharpened his quill, and sat at the desk.

  A concentration appeared that Vazir-Mukhtar hadn’t displayed for a long time. He wrote a dispatch to the shah, tore it into bits, and wrote another.

  He demanded the expeditious extradition of Samson Makintsev, son of Yakov, a Russian sergeant-major and a deserter, also known as Samson-Khan.

  He no longer thought of Nesselrode, or of England, or remembered Petersburg; he thought of the runaway sergeant-major. His books lay on the floor; the suitcase was open.

  He stared at the full stop. His mind wandered: he had had love and fame, his Russian literature and service to the state, and the only thing that was missing now was that fugitive sergeant-major. He had to get him.

  He postponed his departure by one day.

  10

  1

  Oleg’s brave brood is slumbering in the field;

  far from home they’ve flown.

  ▶ The Song of Igor’s Campaign

  Oh, the slumber before a delayed departure, when your feet are stuck in yesterday, when you sleep in a strange bed and the walls fall away and everything is packed and your feet are stuck and your arms bound by sleep.

  From the empty quivers of the pagan Cumans, large pearls are strewn endlessly over your breast.

  Your legs that knew the feel of the warm flanks of a stallion are now numb; your arms lie like foreign states.

  Your breast inflates like bagpipes played by bumbling children.

  In the first courtyard of the Russian legation, the Russian balalaika plays.

  The slumber has shackled the roads, heaped them over with brushwood, muddied up the memories of Russia, exchanged them in the dark for the Caucasus. What a long way, even here, from the third courtyard to the second, from the second to the first—hard to cross the threshold, to find a gate. The sentries are on duty.

  In the first courtyard of the Russian legation, the balalaika strums.

  Your blanket slips from your feet, your feet are growing cold, and in your slumber you seem to be crossing a cold stream. You pull the blanket back on top of you, and the stream dries up. You meet your friends and loved ones, but all of them are nameless—the slumber makes you forget their names. As you lie there, you try to remember, you strain to recall the female arms nearby, so close.

  In the city of Tabriz, Princess Yaroslavna is crying on an English bed. She is pregnant, and the confinement is filled with pain.

  In the first courtyard of the Russian legation. a Cossack plays, and the balalaika strums.

  The slumber is working on a case, on an unpleasant case, and try as it may, it cannot remember what started the case, its number, or the name of the accused. But the case is vital; the man is guilty. He seems to be Russian and apparently a traitor; he has almost betrayed Russia herself. And where is Russia?

  The slumber has shackled the roads, thrown Russia into confusion. And you have to rake away thousands of miles of brushwood so as to reach her and to hear her: Princess Yaroslavna is crying in the city of Tabriz.

  In the first courtyard, the Russian balalaika strums. O, slumber that has befallen the body of Russia! A man with no name—Paskevich?—is struggling in the torpor; Chaadaev is stuck in his backyard—in Tehran? in Moscow?—and there’s nothing up there in the skies as gray as Nesselrode’s eyes. Quiet falls. Someone is rummaging in the semidarkness and sweeping away the brushwood with screeching shovels, trying to reach you as you lie there in bed under a strange blanket.

  In the first courtyard of the Russian legation, the balalaika has stopped its strumming.

  After three knocks, the gate to the Russian legation creaked open.

  A man demanded an immediate audience with Mr. Griboedov.

  2

  Shivering from the night cold, Griboedov, wearing a dressing gown and a pair of shoes, blinked at the man who had been brought in by two Cossacks. He remembered leaving his glasses on the bedside table, but they were not there. Two candles flickered and smoked. Sashka hovered behind him, in the door, watching. He was wearing nothing but his underwear.

  The man who had entered was tall and simply dressed: his kulidja was greasy and his sheepskin hat had bald patches.

  “Your Excellency, I need to talk to you in confidence,” he said in French.

  Griboedov hesitated.

  “Who are you?” he asked cautiously.

  “I had the honor to entertain Your Excellency at a reception at His Majesty’s, and I have been at your embassy on business. You probably don’t recognize me in these clothes.”

  Griboedov waved away the Cossacks and Sashka.

  “Please, sit down.”

  Khoja-Mirza-Yakub sat down stiffly and tentatively. He looked around the room, which still contained the trunks. Snow was melting on his expensive pointed shoes. He gave a soft sigh, like a man who is already tired of the business he is about to discuss, and began:

  “Your Excellency! Forgive me disturbing you at this time of the night. My family name is Markarian, and I was born in the city of Erivan.”

  3

  A century ago, the word treason already seemed to have been relegated to an ode or an ancient legend. A century ago, Mickiewicz had already replaced the word traitor with renegade.

  Whoever crossed the state border betrayed not his state, but his culture—clothes, language, mentality, faith, and women. A German poet forced to live in Paris wrote that his thoughts were exiled to the French language. Two faiths, two languages, two ways of thinking, and a man was teetering between them on a brittle little bridge.

  A century ago, Nesselrode, a man multilingual and therefore nonsensical, was in charge of the Russian state’s foreign policy. The borderline between effeminate, diplomatic writing and the traitor’s cypher was becoming blurred.

  Treason turned into a military word and was restricted to those cases when a man betrayed only once; double betrayal moved into the category of diplomacy.

  Samson Khan, whose extradition Faddei Bulgarin’s friend Alexander Griboedov had been seeking to achieve, was a traitor not because he had betrayed Russia, but because he had betrayed Tsar Pavel, Alexander, and Nicholas. He was a renegade. Ensign Skryplev, lounging about by the Russian mission, was neither a traitor nor a renegade. For the likes of him, there was another word in the Russian language: flop-over, meaning “turncoat.”

  Space and time affect the word treachery. Space renders it short and frightening. A soldier makes his way at night to the opposite camp and gives himself over to the enemy. A few hundred yards of impassable roads, wooded or bare, flat or mountainous, change him forever. It is not the borders of the state that get muddled and lost; it is the boundaries of the person.

  Faddei Bulgarin, Alexander Sergeyevich’s true and valued friend, a Russian officer, gave himself over to the French, fought against Russian troops in 1812, was captured by his own side, and ended up a Russian man of letters. Eight years turned treason into an indistinct word, suitable for polemics in literary journals.

  A flop-over’s business is pretty simple.

  The Russian poet Teplyakov, who witnessed the Turkish campaign of 1829, described it like this:

  “I saw two Turkish flop-overs surrounded by the crowd. One of them stunned me with his colossal stature and his proud belligerent stride,
the other with the radiance of his feminine beauty and the fresh complexion of his near adolescence. Both approached our outposts and surrendered, tired of the discipline in the regular army in which they had been forced to serve.” Their wage of forty piasters was overdue.

  And yet there is no more frightening word than treason. States are hurt by it like a man who has been deceived by a lover or betrayed by a friend.

  Khoja-Mirza-Yakub, a man of such stature, learning, and wealth, was a eunuch.

  He had been castrated by the Persian state not due to animosity or malice, but because the state required eunuchs. There were posts that could be occupied only by maimed men, castratos. Over fifteen years, his wealth had grown, together with his body’s emptiness. He was the holy property of the shah’s state, and one of the shah’s chattels. He was affluent. The important matters of trade and the harem were in his hands. And his hands, like all of him, belonged to the shah. But when he embraced a girl called Dil-Firuz, he felt that those hands were his own, that they were ordinary human hands, white and ringed.

  The filthy Shamkhorian took her away. He did not resist. Particularly since she did not even live at his place. Although he believed it would be better if she were not at Khosraw Khan’s either. But having realized how empty he felt without her around, he understood that this was not exactly the case.

  It so happened that the man with easy movements and casual manners dared sit in front of the shah for almost an hour. With his boots on. For the first time in his entire life, Khoja-Mirza-Yakub saw the shah, whose every gesture he read like an open book, gasping for breath, the sweat dripping off his nose. The shah’s days were numbered; the English doctor was spurring him on for a new war, and the war was to be waged by Abbas Mirza. The eunuch’s days of wealth were also therefore numbered. Looking at Vazir-Mukhtar, he realized that he wielded great power, but he lacked greater knowledge.

  Griboedov had committed many errors: he ought to have paid his first visit to Alaiar Khan, and he need not have sent Dr. McNeill on his behalf.