He, Khoja-Mirza-Yakub, possessed greater knowledge.
Vazir-Mukhtar represented Russia. For the eunuch, Russia had been documents from the embassy, Dr. McNeill’s conversations, and notes. Now it was Erivan, where his parents lived and where he himself used to live when he was a boy.
It might well be that just for a second, the thought of Erivan had transported him back to the monastery at the Mother See of Holy Etchmiadzin, and to Babokatsor, where he was captured, taken to Tabriz, and castrated. On that day, he signed a receipt: Yakub Markarian, even though his usual signature now was Mirza-Yakub.
That decided everything. The eunuch Khoja-Mirza-Yakub’s boundaries became blurred. He was a Tehran dweller, but it was Erivan that once again felt like the main place in his life. The fifteen-year-long stay in Tehran had been the temporary life of a castrato; the eighteen years in Erivan were his youth, the dinner table at which his father would chat with his neighbor and which his mother covered with a fresh tablecloth. Khoja-Mirza-Yakub was wealthy; he was held in high esteem. Yakub Markarian was an unknown man from Erivan.
When he returned home, his mother would lay a fresh tablecloth. He looked at his long-fingered, white, disgraced hands. He would not come back home with unmanly, empty hands. The neighbors would not laugh at him.
He imagined Vazir-Mukhtar sitting with his legs crossed in front of the shah, who was panting and garbed in apparel weighing fifty pounds.
He sat there for an hour, and Yakub Markarian, who had been castrated in the city of Tabriz, imagined himself sitting in front of Fat’h-Ali-shah, taking Vazir-Mukhtar’s place for a minute or two.
Yakub Markarian, who knew many things and whose hands were white and plump and studded with rings.
He was no shorter than Vazir-Mukhtar, and his impassioned face was in no way inferior.
Afterward, he saw Vazir-Mukhtar on his own but said nothing.
He made up his mind only after Alaiar Khan threatened him with caning, after Alaiar Khan said petulantly that it was Khoja-Mirza-Yakub who had pointed out his wives to Vazir-Mukhtar, and that Khoja-Mirza-Yakub had acted in collusion with the shah’s other eunuch.
There was a modicum of truth in this—Mirza-Yakub was covering for his comrade, and Mirza-Yakub’s heels would probably be lashed.
Mirza-Yakub acted slowly, without haste, having weighed everything and given it sufficient thought.
He conferred with Khosraw-Khan and Manouchehr-Khan. They locked themselves away together for hours, and Khosraw came out with eyes entranced and Manouchehr was all hunched over.
They hesitated—perhaps it really made no sense to wait for Fat’h-Ali’s death, and it was worth their while going over to Vazir-Mukhtar. Both were Russian by birth.
But Khoja-Mirza-Yakub hesitated no longer. All his life, he seemed to have thought of nothing else but the Russian embassy. And when the farewell audience was granted to Vazir-Mukhtar, he put all his affairs in order: packed his things into five big chests, and put the letters, money, and various harem receipts in a small case.
In the evening, he took a stroll past the Russian legation and heard some hammering and commotion in the courtyard.
At two o’clock the following morning, he was at Griboedov’s.
And a friend of the traitor Faddei Bulgarin, Alexander Sergeyevich Griboedov, who had been demanding the immediate handover of the traitor Samson, was listening to Khoja-Mirza-Yakub’s story.
Khoja-Mirza Yakub was not a traitor because, in accordance with the Turkmenchai Treaty, people born in Russian territory or in those areas handed over to Russia according to the treaty had the right to return to their native country.
4
Griboedov drew his dressing gown tighter around himself and huddled inside it. The room was cold.
He shut his eyes for a moment. Then he said:
“I cannot accept you secretly, like this, at night; all my affairs must be overt and transparent. I want none of that Persian court intrigue. So, now go back home. Give it some careful thought. And if you really wish to return to your native land, come again, but this time during the day so that I can take you under my protection.”
His caftan thrown on over his underwear, Sashka shone the light for the eunuch as he went down the stairs.
Griboedov saw him stop at the bottom of the staircase, and again in the middle of the courtyard before slowly, reluctantly, going away.
At eight in the morning, the shah’s refusal to extradite Samson was delivered to Griboedov.
And at eight in the morning, Khoja-Mirza-Yakub came with three servants for the second and final time. Khoja-Mirza-Yakub stayed at the Russian embassy and was allocated a room in the second courtyard. The room was south-facing.
5
“Could you tell me please whether it’s true that when a harem goes out of town, signals are sent with rifle shots, the road is cleared of people, and those who don’t leave are thrown into prison?”
“No, not true. When we go to Negarestan Garden for an outing, there is no end of beggars and onlookers.”
“But Jean Chardin describes this in his book. Chardin is a reliable source.”
“Doctor, you seem to forget that Chardin lived in the times when there were knights in France, and before Russia had any emperors.”
Dr. Adelung was at the eunuch’s chamber, making inquiries about Eastern customs.
“I’ve seen a woman here with a scrap of paper attached to her elbow, or a forearm, on a string. What is this?”
“Precepts from the Quran.”
The doctor was delighted:
“I thought so. Amulets, aren’t they?”
The eunuch looked at him and smiled.
“From the female Quran, doctor.”
“Female Quran?”
“His Highness assigned Prince Mahmoud Mirza to compose and record a female Quran. It differs greatly from the male one.”
The doctor looked baffled.
“This is completely new to me. And how is it different?”
“I’ll give you an answer when my books and manuscripts arrive.”
“But you are a man of learning …”
The doctor felt slightly bewildered.
“My learning is pretty meager.”
The doctor said firmly:
“You’re a learned man; you should write down your reminiscences; we’ll translate them together, and Mr. Senkovsky will publish them in Petersburg. They will cause a stir.”
Khoja-Mirza-Yakub kept silent.
“How large is your library?”
“All my property can fit into seven chests.”
“And when will your manuscripts and books arrive?”
“I am expecting them any moment now. My servants, Mr. Griboedov’s valet, and a couple of your chapars have gone to fetch them.”
Half an hour passed.
“Could you tell me please,” asked the doctor, “whether there are any discrepancies in the female Quran regarding ablutions?”
“There are,” responded Mirza-Yakub, and looked out of the window.
Sashka, the couriers, Rustem-Bek, and his men were in the courtyard.
Sashka shrugged his shoulders. He looked grim.
The eunuch’s things were not with them.
Rustem-Bek passed over a letter from the shah to Khoja-Mirza-Yakub. The letter was benign and invited Yakub to return for negotiations.
6
So they sat talking about the female Quran, and Khoja-Mirza-Yakub was becoming a man of letters and Senkovsky’s companion.
Nothing had changed in Tehran.
Except that the square in front of the Russian legation had become empty.
But it had become empty imperceptibly. The parents whose children had been released, as well as those whose hadn’t, had gone away, and the Armenians who had brought their petitions had also dispersed. And the hawkers too.
At nighttime, three big mashals lit up the entrance to the Russian embassy, and the smoke from the torches ran like dust along the b
lood-red, seemingly burning puddles.
Rags soaked in oil crackled like dry gunshots in the iron cages on the long, wooden handles of the mashals.
The door was shut tight and guarded by sarbazes.
And behind the door, the conversation was about the female Quran.
Nothing changed behind the door.
But something did change; something had been violated on the other side of the gate.
Dr. McNeill was pale; his droshky was seen traveling between Alaiar Khan’s palace and the shah’s.
The British state was changing in those days: its Eastern policy was in hands that were white, unmanly, studded with rings, in hands that were disgraced human hands. And not only in those hands: it was now in the long, slim, and tenacious fingers of the Russian poet who was enforcing the treaty.
The seven chests that belonged to Khoja-Mirza-Yakub, sealed by Manouchehr Khan, had been looted. The eunuch’s harem receipts were gone. The letters from various people, including Dr. McNeill, were also gone. There was, therefore, nothing of that female Quran that had so inspired Dr. Adelung, who had wished to see it published under Senkovsky’s editorship.
7
“We should send the sarbazes to bring Khoja back from the legation.”
This was the opinion of Shah-zade Zil-li Sultan.
“But that would be a flagrant violation of the treaty, and our eight kurors will have been paid in vain.”
It was on account of the kurors paid by the traitor Abbas that Zil-li Sultan had had such a sleepless night.
Alaiar Khan made a suggestion:
“Give Khoja back all his possessions and honor him like a king. Lure him with promises and kill him as soon as he leaves the embassy.”
Dr. McNeill had approved of the plan earlier that morning.
“He won’t believe us.”
Zil-li Sultan had his own opinion.
“Hand over Samson-Khan to the kafir, and he will then agree to extradite Khoja.”
Samson was a thorn in his side. If Abbas’s friend had no intention of guarding his father’s palace, Zil-li Sultan would have little to lose.
“I’ve already sent him a dastkhat about Samson’s extradition. The dastkhat is with him. But he is unwilling to hand over Khoja.”
Alaiar Khan came back with another proposition.
“Summon Griboedov to our country estate and kill the eunuch while Griboedov is out of the way.”
“Again, an obvious violation of the treaty.”
Which was exactly what Alaiar Khan wanted—to have the Qajar dynasty at war once again.
Abdal-Vehab, a dervish with the face of Nikita Pustosvyat and a shock of matted hair, made his own quiet contribution.
“Summon him to the ecclesiastical court.”
Dr. McNeill was not present at this meeting. Couriers were sent to Tabriz night and day.
8
The case was handed over to the ecclesiastical court.
Yakub Markarian was the shah’s property. That property was protected by a force mightier than the state or the shah, with his sarbazes: sharia law.
A little old man with a dyed beard was seated in Tehran in order to protect sharia law. His name was Mirza-Massi.
He was familiar with all the dictates of sharia law, the law that applied even to the shah himself.
His right-hand man was Mullah-Msekh, a man who served at the Imam-Zume Mosque, a man with a pale, pudgy face, a man of holy life.
When Iran grew poorer because of the war and the taxes levied by the kafir, Mirza-Massi kept silent: that was the scourge of God on the heads of the Qajars, who outwardly submitted to sharia law but on the sly did exactly as they chose. It was not he who had fought the kafirs.
When Alaiar Khan’s wives had moved in under the Russian’s roof, Mirza-Massi said: the filthy bitches were looking for filthy dogs. Both women were kafirs. Mirza-Massi disapproved of the custom of marrying kafir women. It was not he who had signed the peace treaty with the kafirs.
Now the eunuch, who had professed the Islamic faith for fifteen years, had fled to the kafirs to smear Islam with unbelievers who were as beardless and whiskerless as himself.
Mirza-Massi and Mullah-Msekh came to see the shah.
They had not fought the war; they had not entered into the peace agreements.
They were poring over sharia law. The case had been handed over to the holy court.
The same evening, the shah heard a word that he had not heard for a long time: jihad.
He made no objections. All he wanted was to extricate himself from this business that had been going on and on, to free himself from paying the kurors. His treasury, khazneh, was full, but the kafir was about to get his grubby little fingers into it; all he wanted was to forget about the kafir, to leave for Negarestan, to have some rest, and to find solace in the arms of Taji-Doulet. He was old.
“And yet, jihad? Really?”
The same night, secretly and without a word, he fled to Negarestan with his wife and his daughter, Taji-Doulet.
Yes, jihad.
The same night, Dr. McNeill left town with the young Burgess and all his people to have some rest too, to relax for a bit, to get some fresh air. Just for a day.
Jihad.
Holy war.
On the bespectacled unbeliever. A holy war by the whole city against the kafir in glasses.
“Shut down the bazaar tomorrow and gather in the mosques! There, you will hear our word!”
9
Samson finished his dinner, wiped his mustache with his sleeve, smoothed his beard, and sent for Borshchov.
Borshchov, skeletal, with shifty eyes, came running. They locked themselves in the room.
“Here’s what I say,” said Samson quietly, “start getting the men ready tomorrow. We are leaving the day after. And as quiet as can be. Got it?”
“Got it,” said Borshchov, and gave him a nod.
“We’ll march to Mazandaran. There are thick woods over there. Pack all the tents that we’ve got. Supplies are already there.”
Borshchov asked eagerly, knowingly:
“Has the dastkhat arrived?”
Samson scoffed:
“Dastkhat my ass! I won’t let them get us.” And he swore. “We’ll overpower the sarbazes. If bayonets are not enough, we’ll fight them with rifle butts. There is no dastkhat; the matter is undecided as of yet but will be decided this evening.”
The dastkhat about the handover of Samson and his battalion was already with Griboedov, and Samson was well aware of it.
“Look here, Semyon,” he said. “Don’t tell the boys until the evening, right?”
“As silent as the grave. I’ll go along with whatever you do, Samson Yakovlich. We fought together and we”ll die together, as agreed.”
“That’s right.”
Samson thought for a bit.
“Semyon, don’t take offense, but I know that you have a grudge against me.”
Borshchov shrugged his shoulders:
“It’s all water under the bridge. Let bygones be bygones.”
“I sent that motherfucker away. He’s on his own now.”
Samson was talking about Skryplev, a rival of Borshchov.
Borshchov got up.
“This is military business. Not the place for grudges.”
In the evening, Samson sent for Borshchov once again.
“You haven’t told anyone, have you, Semyon?”
“As you said, Samson Yakovlich. But it looks like they already know.”
“Well then, make no preparations. We are not going anywhere yet.”
“Why is that?”
“There will be no dastkhat. That’s it. But there might be some uproar.”
Borshchov looked at him closely.
“Tell the lads not to get involved.”
Borshchov’s response was evasive:
“Whatever you say. All the same.”
“I am telling you: no fooling around,” said Samson, and suddenly grew red in the face.
“Don’t let anyone out of the barracks. Are you hearing me, Semyon? We’ll all be held to account. Lock up the barracks.”
He paced the room, treading heavily on the carpet in his high boots.
And long after Borshchov had left the room, Samson kept stomping on the rugs with his bandy cavalryman’s legs in their oiled boots, like a barge in shallow waters.
Then he stopped, filled his pipe, calmly lit up, and resumed his pacing.
Once he threw a hesitant glance at the door and was about to leave the room.
But he waved his hand, sat down, and fixed his eye on the wall, on the rug with the weapons displayed on it. He looked at the curved blade of the scimitar, which Khosraw Khan had presented him with last year, and then back at his bowlegs.
“So what?” he asked himself quietly. “Do I care? Not a damn.”
And his bottom lip drooped as though he had been insulted.
10
That day, Mirza-Massi spoke to the people.
That day, Mullah-Msekh spoke to the people in the Imam-Zume Mosque.
That day, the argument was between the city and the man, the peace treaty and sharia law, Persia and Europe, Britain and Russia.
That day, the gifts for the shah were delivered to the Russian embassy at long last. The boxes were unloaded in the courtyard.
In the evening, a man darted, like a shadow, to the Russian legation. The streets adjacent to the Russian embassy were quiet.
The man was taken to Vazir-Mukhtar.
He was pale; his eyes darted around.
“Your Excellency,” he said with trembling lips, “I am here on behalf of Manouchehr-Khan. Mullah-Msekh and Mirza-Massi have been talking to the people today. They have declared jihad.”
Griboedov closed his eyes. He was perfectly calm; only his eyes were shut.
The man was babbling:
“Your Excellency! Your Excellency, before it’s too late, extradite Mirza-Yakub.”
Griboedov was silent.
“Or let him come to the Shah-Abdol-Azim Shrine in secret: it’s just a step away, Your Excellency, just across the ditch. No one will touch him in the mosque, Your Excellency.”
Tears welled in the man’s eyes. He was shaking.
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 47