by Kurban Said
Then they told me the story of the Horse of Karabagh: ‘Everything in the country was beautiful,’ they said. ‘But the most beautiful thing in it was the Horse of Karabagh, this famous Horse, for which Aga Mohammed, Shah of Persia, offered to give his entire harem’—(did my friends know that Aga Mohammed was a eunuch?)—‘This Horse,’ they said, ‘was almost holy. For centuries wise men had pondered and matched, until this miracle of breeding was born: the best horse in the world, the famous red-gold Noble Animal of Karabagh.’ Having listened to so much praise I became curious, and asked them to show me one of these wonderful horses. My companions looked at me pityingly. ‘It is easier to force one’s way into the Sultan’s harem, than to get into the stable of the Karabagh horses. There are only twelve genuine red-gold animals in the whole town. To see them is to become a horse-thief. Only when war breaks out the owner mounts his red-gold miracle.’ So I had to be content with the tales they told me of the legendary horse.
Now I sat on the verandah in Shusha, listened to old Mustafa’s chatter, waited for Nino, and liked this fairytale country. ‘Oh Khan,’ said Mustafa, ‘your forefathers have waged war, but you have sat in the House of Wisdom and are a learned man. So you have heard of the fine arts. The Persians are proud of Sa’adi, Hafis and Firdausi, the Russians of Pushkin, and far away in the West there was a poet called Goethe, who wrote a poem about the devil.’
‘Were all these poets from Karabagh too?’ I interrupted.
‘No, noble sir, but our poets are better, even if they refuse to imprison their words in dead letters. They are too proud to write down their poems—they just recite them.’
‘Who are these poets? The Ashouks?’
‘Yes, the Ashouks,’ said the old man weightily. ‘They live in the villages around Shusha, and tomorrow they hold a competition. Will you go and marvel at them?’ Native poets live in almost every village of Karabagh. They compose poems throughout the winter, and in spring they come out into the world to recite their songs in huts and palaces. But there are three villages which are populated by poets only, and to show the high esteem in which the Orient holds poetry, these villages are freed from all taxes and tributes. One of these villages is Tash-Kenda.
It needed but one glance to show that the men of this village were no ordinary farmers. The men wore their hair long, their robes were of silk, and they looked at each other suspiciously. Their women walked behind them, looking depressed, carrying their musical instruments. The village was full of rich Armenians and Mohammedans, who had come from all over the country to admire the Ashouks. An eager crowd had gathered in the little main square. In the centre stood two valiant lords of song, who were here to fight a hard duel. They looked at each other with scorn. Their long hair fluttered in the breeze. One of them cried: ‘Your clothes stink of dung, your face is that of a pig, your talent is as thin as the hair on a virgin’s stomach, and for a little money you would compose a poem on your own shame.’
The other answered, barking grimly: ‘You wear the robe of a pimp, you have the voice of a eunuch. You cannot sell your talent, because you never had any. You live off the crumbs that fall from the festive table of my genius.’
So they went on slanging each other fervently and not a little monotonously. The public clapped. Then an old grey-haired man with the face of an apostle arrived and announced the two themes for the competition: ‘The moon over the river Araxes’ and ‘The death of Aga Mohammed Shah!’ The poets looked up to the sky. Then they sang. They sang of the grim eunuch Aga Mohammed Shah, who travelled to Tiflis, there to regain his lost virility at the sulphur springs. When the springs failed to help him, the eunuch destroyed the town and had all men and women in it cruelly executed. But fate overtook him on his way back in Karabagh. During the night, when he was asleep in his tent, he was stabbed to death. The great Shah had not enjoyed life. On his campaigns he had suffered hunger, had eaten black bread and drunk sour milk. He conquered innumerable countries and was poorer than a beggar in the desert. The eunuch Aga Mohammed Shah. All this they recited in classic verses. One of them described at great length the sufferings of the eunuch in the land of the most beautiful women in the world, while the other described at equally great length the execution of these women. The public was satisfied. Sweat fell in heavy drops from the poets’ foreheads. Then the more soft-spoken one cried out: ‘What is like the moon over the Araxes?’
‘The face of thy beloved’, interrupted the grim one.
‘Mild is the moon’s gold!’ cried the soft-spoken one.
‘No, it is like a fallen warrior’s shield,’ replied the grim one. In time they exhausted their similes. Then each of them sang a song about the beauty of the moon, of the river Araxes, that winds like a maiden’s plait through the plain, and of lovers who come to the banks at night to look at the moon reflected in the waters of the Araxes. … The grim one was declared to be the winner, and with an evil smile he took his opponent’s lute. I went to him. He looked glum, while his bowl was being filled with coins. ‘Are you happy to have won?’ I asked him.
He spat disgustedly. ‘This is no victory, sir. In former times there were victories. A hundred years ago the victor was allowed to cut the vanquished one’s head off. In those days art was held in high esteem. Now we have become soft. No one gives his blood for a poem any more.’
‘You are now the best poet in the country.’
‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I am just a craftsman. I am no real Ashouk.’
‘What is a real Ashouk?’
‘In the month of Ramadan,’ said the grim one, ‘there is a mysterious night, the night called Kadir. During this night all nature sleeps for an hour. Rivers cease to flow, the evil spirits do not guard their treasures. Grass can be heard growing and trees talking. Nymphs arise from the rivers, and those men who are fathered during this night become wise men and poets. On this night the poet must call the Prophet Elias, the patron saint of all poets. At the right hour the Prophet appears, lets the poet drink from his bowl and says to him: ‘From now on you are a real Ashouk, and you will see everything in the world with my eyes.’ He who is thus blessed, rules over the elements: animals and men, winds and seas obey his voice, for in his word is the Power of the Prophet.’ The grim one sat down on the ground and rested his face in his hands. Then he wept, quickly and bitterly. He said, ‘But nobody knows which night is the Night Kadir, nor which hour of the Night is the Hour of Sleep. And there are no real Ashouks any more.’ He got up and went away. Lonely, dark and sullen, a wolf of the Steppes in the green paradise of Karabagh.
6
The well of Pechapür murmured in its stony, narrow bed. Around it the trees looked up to heaven like tired saints. The view was glorious: in the south, Armenia’s meadows spread out like biblical pastures, sweet and full of promises for a full harvest. Shusha was hidden behind the hills. In the east, the fields of Karabagh disappeared into the dusty deserts of Azerbeidshan. The glowing breath of Zarathustra’s fire swept across the plain on the wings of the desert wind. But no leaf in the grove around us stirred, it was as if the gods of the classical ages had departed just a moment ago and the enchantment still lingered on. Our smoking fire might have been the descendant of the many fires consecrated to this holy place. Sitting and lying around the flames on many-coloured rugs was a party of Georgians, and I was with them. Cups of wine, heaped platters of fruit, vegetables and cheese were arranged around the fire, where meat was rotating on the spit. Near the well sat the Sasandari, the wandering minstrels. Even the names of the instruments in their hands sounded like music: dairah, tshianouri, thara, diplipito. They began to sing one of the Bayats, a love song in Persian rhythm. The urban Georgians had asked for this to enhance the exotic charm of the scene. ‘Dionysic mood’, that is what our Latin teachers would have called this wanton way of becoming part of the country’s customs. It was the Kipiani family, who had finally arrived, and had invited all the gay holiday-makers to this nocturnal feast in the grove of Shusha.
In front
of me sat Nino’s father, tonight ‘the Tamada’, who, according to the strict rules, directed the feast. His eyes were gleaming, he had a bushy black moustache on his reddish face. He held a cup in his hand and drank to me. I sipped at my glass, even though normally I do not drink. But the Tamada was Nino’s father, and it would have been impolite not to drink when invited by him. Servants brought water from the well. This is one of the innumerable marvels of Karabagh: drink of it, and you can eat as much as you like, without feeling any of the unpleasant effects of overeating. As we drank of the waters the mountains of food became smaller. Nino’s mother was sitting next to her husband at the flickering fire. Her profile was severe, but her eyes were laughing. Those eyes came from Mingrelia, from the plain of Rion, where once Medea the Sorceress had met the Argonaut Jason. The Tamada raised his glass: ‘A cup in honour of His Highness Dadiani’. An old man with the eyes of a child thanked him, and the third round began. All emptied their glasses. No one was drunk, for at a banquet the Georgians feel the uplifting happiness in their hearts, and their heads stay clear like the Pechapür waters, which, amongst their other fabulous qualities, have the power to keep one sober.
Ours was not the only party. The grove was bright with the light of many fires. Every week the whole of Shusha makes the pilgrimage to the wells. The feasts go on until dawn. Christians and Mohammedans together celebrate in the heathen shades of the holy grove.
I looked at Nino sitting beside me, and she returned my look. She was talking to the grey-haired Dadiani. That was good and proper. Reverence for the old, love for the young. ‘You must come and stay with me sometime at my castle Zugdidi,’ said the old man, ‘on the river Rion, where long ago Medea’s slaves used to catch the gold in fleeces. And you too, Ali Khan. You will see the ancient trees in the tropical jungle of Mingrelia.’
‘With pleasure, your Highness, but for your sake only, not for the trees.’
‘What have you against trees? To me they are the embodiment of life fulfilled.’
‘Ali Khan is afraid of trees the way a child is afraid of ghosts,’ said Nino.
‘It’s not as bad as that. But what you feel for the trees I feel for the desert,’ I replied.
Dadiani’s childish eyes blinked. ‘The desert,’ he said, ‘fallow bushes and hot sand.’
‘The world of the trees perplexes me, your Highness. It is full of fright and mystery, of ghosts and demons. You cannot look ahead. You are surrounded. It is dark. The sun’s rays are lost in the twilight of the trees. In this twilight everything is unreal. No, I do not love the trees. The shadows of the woods oppress me, and it makes me sad to hear the rustling of the branches. I love simple things: wind, sand and stones. The desert is simple like the thrust of a sword. The wood is complicated like the Gordian knot. I lose my way in the woods, your Highness.’
Dadiani looked at me thoughtfully: ‘You have the soul of a desert man,’ he said. ‘Maybe that is the one real division between men: wood men and desert men. The Orient’s dry intoxication comes from the desert, where hot wind and hot sand make men drunk, where the world is simple and without problems. The woods are full of questions. Only the desert does not ask, does not give, and does not promise anything. But the fire of the soul comes from the wood. The desert man—I can see him—has but one face, and knows but one truth, and that truth fulfills him. The woodman has many faces. The fanatic comes from the desert, the creator from the woods. Maybe that is the main difference between East and West.’
‘That is why we Armenians and Georgians love the wood,’ Melik Nachararyan interrupted, a fat man from one of the noblest Armenian families. He had protruding eyes, bushy eyebrows, and was inclined to philosophy and drinking. We got on well together. He drank to me and cried: ‘Ali Khan! Eagles come from the mountains, tigers from the jungle. What comes from the desert?’
‘Lions and warriors,’ I answered, and Nino clapped her hands happily.
Roast mutton was handed round on spits. Again and again the cups were filled. Georgian happiness filled the wood. Dadiani was deep in a discussion with Nachararyan, and Nino looked at me with a sly question in her eyes. I nodded. Darkness had fallen. By the light of the fires people looked like ghosts or like bandits. No one paid any attention to us. I got up and walked slowly to the well. I bent over the water and drank from my hand. That was good. For a long time I stared at the reflection of the stars in the water. Then I heard steps behind me. A dry branch cracked under a small foot … I stretched out my hand and Nino took it. We went into the wood. It was not quite right that we had left the fire, that Nino sat down on the edge of a little meadow and drew me down to her. The customs are strict in happy Karabagh. Old Mustafa had told me, full of horror, that eighteen years ago there had been a case of adultery in the country. Since then the fruit harvest had never been the same. We looked at each other, and Nino’s face was pale and mysterious in the moonlight. ‘Princess,’ I said, and Nino looked at me sideways. She was a Princess of twenty-four hours standing, and it had taken her father twenty-four years to get his claim for the title agreed to in Petersburg. This morning he had received a telegram stating his request had been granted. This had made the old man feel as happy as a child who has found his lost mother, and tonight we celebrated. ‘Princess,’ I repeated, and took her face into my hands. She did not resist. Perhaps she had drunk too much of the Kachetian wine. Perhaps the wood and the moon had intoxicated her. I kissed her. The palms of her hands were soft and warm, her body yielding. Dry branches crackled. We were lying on the soft moss, Nino looking into my face. I touched the small roundness of her firm breasts. A new strange feeling reached out from Nino to me, and overwhelmed both of us. She had become one with the mysterious urges of the earth, living only in her senses. Her face became small and very serious. I opened her dress. Her skin shone like an opal in the moonlight. Her heart was beating and she spoke broken words of tenderness and longing. I buried my face between her small breasts, her skin was fragrant and had a faint salty taste. Her knees trembled. Tears were running down her face, I kissed them away and dried her wet cheeks. She got up and was now silent, unsure in her own mysteries and feelings. She was only seventeen years old, my Nino, and went to the Lyceum of the Holy Queen Tamar. She said:
‘I think I really love you, Ali Khan, even though I am now a Princess.’
‘Maybe you won’t be one for very long,’ I said, and Nino looked at me, puzzled.
‘What do you mean? Will the Czar take the title away again?’
‘You will lose it when you marry. But never mind, Khan is a very nice title too.’
Nino crossed her hands behind her neck, threw her head back and laughed: ‘Khan maybe, but Khaness? There is no such thing. And anyway, you have a funny way of proposing—that is, if this is meant to be a proposal?’
‘Yes, it is meant to be one.’
Nino’s fingers stroked my face and came to rest in my hair. ‘And if I say yes, will you always be grateful to the wood of Shusha and make your peace with the trees?’
‘I think I will.’
‘But for our honeymoon you will go to your uncle in Theeran, and I may, for a special treat, visit the Imperial Harem, drink tea and make conversation with the fat women in it.’
‘Well?’
‘And then I will be allowed to look at the desert, because there isn’t anybody around who could look at me.’
‘No, Nino, you needn’t look at the desert. You wouldn’t like it.’
Nino put her arms round my neck and pressed her nose against my forehead. ‘Maybe I will marry you, Ali Khan. But have you ever thought of all the things we will have to overcome, quite apart from woods and deserts?’
‘What things?’
‘First of all my father and mother will die of sorrow because I marry a Mohammedan. Then your father will put a curse on you and demand that I become a Mohammedan. And if I do that, little father Czar will send me to Siberia because I have betrayed the Christian Faith. And you too, because you made me do it.’
‘And then we sit in the middle of the Arctic sea on an iceberg and the big white bears eat us,’ I laughed. ‘No, Nino, it won’t be as bad as all that. You needn’t become a Mohammedan, your parents will not die of sorrow, and for our honeymoon we will go to Paris and Berlin, and you can look at the trees in the Bois de Boulogne and the Tiergarten. What do you say to that?’
‘You are good to me,’ she said, astonished, ‘and I don’t say No, but there is still lots of time to say Yes. I won’t run away, don’t worry. Let’s talk to our parents when I have finished school. But don’t kidnap me. Whatever you do, don’t do that. I know your ways: across the saddle, into the mountains, and from then on a long drawn out blood-feud with the house of Kipiani.’ Suddenly she was full of irrepressible gaiety. All of her seemed to laugh: her face, her hands, her feet, her skin. She was leaning against a tree, her head bent, and she looked up at me as I stood in front of her. In the shade of the tree she looked like an exotic animal, hiding in the woods, afraid of the hunter. ‘Let’s go,’ said Nino, and we walked through the wood to the big fire. On the way she suddenly had a thought. She stopped and looked up to the moon. ‘But our children, what religion will they have?’ she asked anxiously.