“I cannot banish a person, especially a Russian subject who has come under the Russian banner and to whom protection has been extended, from the legation,” Griboedov cited the statute slowly and in a voice not his own. “But if Yakub would care to leave of his own free will, I will not hinder him. Good night, Mr. Melikyants.”
The man stumbled unsteadily, hesitantly, down the stairs. Ten minutes later, Griboedov sent Sashka to the eunuch with a note.
Sashka came back and reported:
“Mister chief eunuch asks me to convey that if Your Excellency wishes, he will always be glad to fulfill your wishes, but he will not go of his own accord.”
“Thanks, Sasha,” said Griboedov, “thank you. You’ve conveyed it correctly.”
“And Mr. Melikyants was not quite himself, was he?” added Sashka, pleased with himself.
“And now, my dear fellow, summon Ivan Sergeyevich Maltsov, will you?”
When the man arrived, he addressed him formally.
“Could you, Ivan Sergeyevich, kindly write a note, outlining my actions with references to the articles of the law? Starting from the moment of my arrival in Iran. Word it strongly, but keep all the titles. Finish it with something like this: ‘the undersigned is convinced that Russian subjects are no longer safe here and is asking for His Majesty’s permission to leave for Russia, or, even better, to withdraw within the borders of the Russian empire. ‘Most graciously,’ of course.’”
Maltsov became alarmed.
“Is there any news?”
“No,” said Griboedov.
“Shall I draw it up today?”
“Better today. I am sorry to bother you.”
When Maltsov left, Griboedov took a sheet of paper and scribbled:
Aol, otirsanatvfe’ easfrmr
According to the double cypher, the phrase meant:
Nos affaires vont très mal.1
Who was Alexander Sergeyevich writing it for?
Without finishing it, he placed the sheet of paper down on the desk along with the others.
He pulled out the desk drawer and counted the money. Not much was left; the expenses had been huge. How stingy he’d become!
11
So by nightfall, no one in the Russian legation, besides the eunuch Mirza-Yakub and Alexander Sergeyevich, knew what the distraught man had said.
Sashka forgot about him. Before sleep, he read his favorite “poem” The Little Orphan, composed by Mr. Bulgarin. Then he went to bed. Griboedov was in his bedroom; his window remained lit until late in the night.
“Still awake,” said one of the Cossacks, glancing at the little window from the courtyard.
The other one yawned:
“Business matters.”
12
Then his conscience stood up before him, and he began talking to it as if it were a human being.
“These are bygones. Never mind your papers—don’t fuss over them.”
“Sit down and have a think.”
“You kicked a dog in the street today, remember?”
Griboedov winced: “Not nice, but it’s probably used to that.”
“Well, then, your life has gone awry; it’s in tatters.”
“You have lived in vain, to no purpose whatsoever …”
“In cloud cuckoo land, Nephelokokkygia?2”
“Who said—‘cloud cuckoo land’?” Griboedov became interested. “Ah well, the doctor said that.”
“What have you abandoned your childhood dreams for? What has come of your learning, of your work?”
“Nothing,” said Griboedov quietly. “It has been a tiring day. Let me be.”
“Where did you go wrong?”
“You married a child and abandoned her. She is pregnant and suffering and waiting for you.”
“You shouldn’t have crossed swords with Nesselrode or wrangled with Abbas Mirza: it was no concern of yours. What did Samson do to you? Even in an official capacity, one needs to be better-natured, my dear chap.”
“I haven’t had much success in literature,” said Griboedov reluctantly. “And whatever you think, the East …”
“Perhaps what you needed were Russian clothes and a patch of earth to call your own. You don’t like people, so you bring harm to them. Think about it.”
“You forgot your childhood. Your taunting of Maltsov! You have been deluding yourself. What if you are neither an author nor a politician?”
Griboedov chuckled: “What am I, then?”
“Perhaps you will flee, you will hide? It does not matter that they say: failure. You can extradite the eunuch; you can start a new life; you can secure another appointment.”
“Let this cup pass from me.”
“You bragged that you would revolutionize literature, return it to its folk roots. You wanted song; you wanted a new Russian theater.”
“It wasn’t empty bragging,” said Griboedov, coldly. “It just didn’t happen.”
“The dangers are exaggerated. I will put on my peacock uniform, come out, and they will calm down.”
“Does it really mean that there would be no Russia, no literature? You are envious. You are in awe of your mama, my dear. Hence your evasive behavior.”
“Remember Katya. You used to love her.”
A shy smile, and Griboedov said softly: “Sweetheart.”
“You will have a son, Nino will cradle him: luli-luli … For your son’s sake …”
“You can extradite the eunuch; you can find refuge in a mosque.”
First thing tomorrow—to present the gifts to the shah.
“You will grow a beard like Samson … No need to overcomplicate things. There will be Tsinandali.”
“Maybe it is not yet too late?”
The thought was waved aside by Griboedov, like tiresome gossip:
“Late or not, I know all of this myself.”
“But you have to flee, you have to! It is a dreadful thing—to die—never to see or hear anything ever again.”
“I don’t want to think about it. I followed the terms of the treaty to the letter.” And he rose.
Against his will, he took a sheaf of papers from the desk—the dastkhat on Samson, perhaps, or Rustem-Bek’s bills, or the encrypted notes. He tossed them into the fireplace and lit a match. The papers smoldered, refusing to catch fire: the draft was poor.
Maltsov came in with a sheet of paper in his hands.
“Permit me to read something to you … Are you making a fire yourself?”
He looked puzzled.
“Are you not well? Where is Alexander?”
Griboedov did not turn round:
“Alexander is asleep. Alexander is asleep, Alexander is asleep,” he intoned gently.
Maltsov shivered, for no real reason.
“You are unwell. Maybe I should call the doctor? Why are you burning the papers?”
“I am not,” he answered seriously. “They won’t burn; it’s too thick a wad and too damp. They will take some time to burn down. Ivan Sergeyevich, I beg you not to hinder me.”
Maltsov left.
The papers were now burning brightly. It was snug.
Griboedov warmed his hands in front of the fireplace.
“Cozy,” he said, suddenly animated, “all is well and will be so.”
He went to bed, snuggled up in his blanket, and glanced at the fire again. Then he turned to the wall and fell asleep at once: a wholesome, deep, and sweet sleep.
11
1
Aghengher the blacksmith, who lived not far from the Imam-Zume Mosque, had been fasting for two weeks, and for two weeks he hadn’t touched his wife. He was always like that before the Muharrаm days, but this year, his son had perished in the war, along with many horses, and there were none to shoe. The fast gave him none of the usual relief, though he lost some weight. He was hungry, night-dreaming of a woman—not his wife, a different one; he tortured her, twisted her arms, and nothing was enough. He slept soundly, but at six o’clock in the morning, he woke up with a start and, having thr
own on his clothes, ran out onto the roof. Rubbing his eyes, he looked at the other roofs, flat and desolate, and his heart pounded. He thought that he had slept in. Then his neighbor, the cobbler, showed up on the opposite roof across a narrow lane and looked at him apprehensively. Without saying a word, they ran downstairs, each to his workshop. Aghengher grabbed his heavy sledgehammer. It appeared too heavy, so he dropped it and picked up a knife wrapped in a cloth from the floor, out of a pile of junk. The knife was light enough. He stuck it into his belt, grabbed the hammer, and dragged it with him, running up onto the roof again. The adjacent rooftops were stirring with people: women craned their necks looking in the direction of the Imam-Zume Mosque. Men ran nimbly along the lane, one after another. The air was stagnant. Suddenly the blacksmith jumped off the roof onto the wide, low stone fence, hopped down, and loped toward the mosque. He could see its white back wall, and there was no one there.
A clear sound, a sigh, was vibrating like a light human breeze:
“Ya-Ali …”
And when the blacksmith, like a boy, hopping along with his sledgehammer hitting the ground, leaped into the thousand-strong crowd, Mullah-Msekh had finished the prayer, and the blacksmith was just in time to yelp, looking into the mouth of the man next to him:
“Ya-Ali-Salavat!”
2
Dr. Adelung usually woke up early, between six and seven. He went to bed no later than nine. He was convinced that the discipline of sleep and food was more important for a human being than the climate he lived in, or his body temperature. At half past seven, he was at his desk wearing an old dressing gown and recording the events of the previous day in his diary, information that he had had no time to enter the previous night owing to the lateness of the hour.
He wrote:
January 30.
Monsieur Maltzoff behaves with extravagance inappropriate to the current circumstances, as one should not display private wealth in times of general austerity. A. S. G. finds it unpalatable. Maltsov has bought so many fabrics, it’s as if he has a harem at home. And he is a bachelor. He is boastful about his Lion and Sun and flaunts it on his chest. He remains with us at the embassy to help us carry on with affairs. Tomorrow, we are presenting the gifts to the shah. The day after tomorrow, we’ll be on the road again.
Words with the eunuch. As it turns out, the shah’s harem customs are not all that pure. A wife’s adultery. (Women’s clothes contribute to it; with the chador on, even a husband is unable to see whether it is his wife.) NB. Impunity since the shah cannot afford to admit publicly to such an occurrence, and rumor spreads fast over here. He also told me that in order to pay the eighth kuror, the shah intends to produce something from the treasure house: a diamond generally known under the name of Nader Shah. Have convinced Yakub to start writing it all down in his Notes.
The doctor listened carefully. He heard a distant noise, unclear, monolithic. He thought a little and scribbled again:
Compared to Tabriz, Tehran is much noisier. Not a single day passes without a fight at the bazaar. NB. Tell Senkovsky about musical instruments.
Maltsov dashed in without knocking. The doctor glanced at him irritably. Maltsov had on a tailcoat over his nightgown.
“What brings you here, my dear Ivan Sergeyevich, at such an early hour?”
Maltsov grabbed his hand.
“Doctor, doctor, for God’s sake, let’s run for it … Can’t you hear?”
The noise was certainly increasing. It was becoming more distinct.
Ya-A-li rippled somewhere in the distance.
The doctor rose, his eyes bulging.
“And so, what about it?”
Maltsov burst into tears. He sounded wretched.
“Dear doctor, can’t you see?”
The doctor considered for a second.
“Do you think this is …”
“Let’s run—let’s not lose a moment.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know where.”
Maltsov scurried about, weeping.
The doctor bristled. His dressing gown flew wide open.
“You’ve lost your mind! Go to Alexander Sergeyevich and wake him up at once!”
Maltsov flapped his hands at him, each of his fingers flickering separately. Not hearing, he dashed from the room. The doctor drank some water and listened to the noise. Suddenly he put down the glass.
It was coming from far off:
“Jih-h-h-ad …”
He stood for another second, holding the glass again, swiftly threw off his dressing gown, and put on his uniform. He looked around and fastened on his foil, as short as a mouse’s tail, donned his cap, and suddenly threw it back on the desk. With astonishing speed, he shoved a few sheets of paper into the desk drawer and left the room. And in the courtyard, he flared his nostrils like a dog drawing in the air.
There was no smell of burning.
The noise was coming from the neighboring streets and heading straight for the gates. He turned round abruptly and strode into the backyard. The Cossack guards were fast asleep. He did not wake them.
3
“Avv-a-vv-a-vva.” That was Sashka.
His teeth were chattering while he was shaking Griboedov.
“Avva-a-vva, Alexander Sergeyevich.”
Griboedov was asleep.
At last, he sat up in bed and gave Sashka a distant look. He put on his spectacles and came to.
The old Dadashyants stood behind Sashka’s back, the one who had brought the gifts for the shah the previous night.
Griboedov lowered his bare feet to the floor. He was cold.
“What do you want?” he asked angrily.
“Your Excellency,” the old man said hoarsely and doffed his round hat, “the mob is on the rampage. Yakub must be sent away.”
Griboedov was staring at the thin, sweaty hair, usually covered.
“And who are you?”
“I am Dadashyants,” the old man said plaintively, and moved backward behind Sashka.
“Well, if you are Dadashyants, I forbid you to meddle in affairs that do not concern you. What liberties you are taking! Off you go.
“And you, Sasha? What are you doing here? I’ll lie down for a little longer. Bring my clothes in ten minutes’ time.”
And Sashka calmed down.
Exactly ten minutes later, Griboedov got dressed. He put on his gold-embroidered uniform and cocked hat as if off to a parade, and went out into the courtyards to give instructions. He heard the noise, which sounded like the howling of the spectators in the gods of a theater, applauding Katya Teleshova as he had once heard it from the theater buffet. And suddenly the howling stopped, as if Katya were giving an encore.
4
Maltsov ran out of Dr. Adelung’s room.
“O-o-o-u …”
He was clamoring as he ran.
“Oh, my dears, my precious friends,” he said, his feet drumming like a capricious child’s.
He dashed into his apartment, on the balakhane, rushed toward the little chest, and stuck the tiny key into the keyhole.
Banknotes, receipts, gold. He crumpled the receipts and shoved the banknotes into his side pocket.
Gold. He filled his pockets.
“I’ve got to get out of here.”
And where to, you fool? Where would you run to, idiot? he asked himself, disgusted, self-mocking, and burst into tears again.
And he stumbled back down into the courtyard, where he ran into two Persian soldiers from the Yakub-sultan guard. They were leaving.
“Yakub-sultan?” he yelped at them. “Where is Yakub-sultan?”
They passed him without a word.
The wind carried the sounds:
“Ya-a-a.”
He took a few steps after them, running on his already wobbly legs. Then he fell behind and tripped. He realized that Yakub-sultan was gone—and turned back.
He found himself right outside Nazar Ali Khan’s apartment.
The Persians stood guard. The fer
rashi looked him up and down.
“Ya-a-ali,” was growing louder and was not going away.
“I need to see Nazar Ali Khan at once,” he said, explaining himself, his teeth chattering and pointing with his finger at the door.
One of them said in broken Russian:
“Nazar Ali Khan left yesterday.”
Maltsov stared at him and realized that he was the interpreter.
“… Salavat …”
He grabbed the interpreter’s hand. Beckoned him. Stuck his hand into his pocket. Clasped the gold: five, ten coins, a fistful. Shoved it into his hand.
“Could you hide me,” he said, “in here, eh? At Nazar Ali Khan’s? Eh? He is gone, isn’t he? Eh?”
The interpreter glanced at the palm of his hand.
“Too little.”
Maltsov went back into his pocket. His trousers were not buttoned properly, and he rearranged them.
“For each of us.”
“Agreed, cash in hand for each man, just as you say,” said Maltsov, and raised the palm of his hand.
The interpreter went up to the ferrashi, had a word, and came back.
“Where is it?” he said roughly.
Maltsov poured the gold into his hands. The interpreter beckoned two more ferrashi. The gold disappeared into their pockets. A small amount was left at the bottom of his left pocket. The ferrashi lingered, looking at Maltsov. Now they would probably tell him to get lost.
“My dear fellows, my precious friends,” he babbled. The interpreter unlocked the door, let Maltsov in, watched him go in, and locked the door on him.
Maltsov lay face down on the carpet. His nostrils took in the scent of dust. He shut his eyes, but this was even more unnerving, and he fixed his eye on a twirl of orange color in the shape of a question mark.
Then, a minute, or half an hour later, came the roaring.
He clasped the rim of the carpet with both hands, dropped his head, and stared at the question mark.
5
When they were leaving the enclosure of the Imam-Zume Mosque, there were five or six hundred of them. When they approached the accursed gates, there were ten thousand.
The mullahs and sayyids, who led the mob, did not look back. But they could feel behind them the growing intensity of breath, of steps, of screams. Smiths, fruit sellers, artisans, kebabchis—sellers of roast meats—all on the move. The mob converged with others from the lanes in dozens, and from the streets in hundreds. Sarbazes with rifles. One-handed men in ragged kulidjas picked up stones from the road, each with his remaining left hand. The one-handed ones were the lots. Daggers, staves, hammers, rocks, rifles were arriving from the lanes. They were handed over by the old men, who had not joined the mob. Axes.
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 48