by Kurban Said
10
Close your eyes, cover your ears with your hands and open your soul. Remember that night in Teheran? An enormous blue stone hall, the noble signature of Shah Nasreddin over the entrance. In the middle of the hall is a square stage, and all around, sitting, standing, lying, dignified men, excited children, fanatic youths—the devout public at the Passion Play of Holy Hussein. The hall is dimly lit. On stage bearded angels comfort the young Hussein. Grim Khalif Jasid sends his riders into the desert, to bring him the youth’s head. Mournful songs are interrupted by the clinking of swords. Ali, Fatima and Eve, the first woman, wander across the stage, singing many-versed rubaiyats. Someone hands the young Hussein’s head on a gold plate to the Khalif. The spectators tremble and weep. A Mullah passes along the rows collecting tears in cotton wool. There are strong magic powers in those tears. The deeper the beholder’s faith, the greater is the effect of the play on him. A plank of wood becomes the desert, a box the diamond-studded throne of the Khalif, a few wooden poles the Garden of Eden, and a bearded man the daughter of the Prophet.
Now open your eyes, drop your hands and look around: Dazzling light from innumerable electric bulbs. Walls and chairs are covered in red velvet, boxes are held aloft by gilt plaster-of-Paris gods. Bald heads in the stalls shine like stars on the night sky. The women’s white backs and naked arms add to the excitement. A dark abyss separates the spectators from the stage. Down there, nameless, faceless musicians are sitting, tuning their instruments. The auditorium is filled with the sound of soft conversations, one flowing into the other, of rustling programmes, of flapping fans and lorgnettes: this is the Baku Opera a few minutes before the beginning of Eugene Onegin. Nino was sitting beside me. Her oval face was turned to me, her lips moist and her eyes dry. She did not say much. When the lights went out I put my arm round her shoulder. She bent her head to the side and seemed immersed in Tschaikovsky’s music. Eugene Onegin wandered about on the stage in his Regency costume, and Tatyana sang an aria.
I prefer the opera to the theatre. The opera stories are comparatively simple, and most of them are well known anyway. I do not mind the music if it is not too loud. But in the theatre it is often a real effort for me to try and follow the strange goings-on on the stage. It is dark, and when I close my eyes my neighbours think my soul is sunk in an ocean of musical enchantment. This time I kept my eyes open. Nino was leaning forward and behind her delicate profile I saw the first row of the stalls. In the middle sat a fat man with sheep’s eyes and a philosophical forehead—my old friend Melik Nachararyan. His head kept moving in time to the music between Nino’s left eye and her nose.
‘Look, there’s Nachararyan,’ I whispered.
‘Look at the stage, barbarian,’ she whispered back, but glanced quickly at the fat Armenian. He turned and nodded a friendly greeting.
During the interval, I met him at the buffet, where I was getting chocolates for Nino. He came to our box and sat there, fat, clever and a bit bald.
‘How old are you, Nachararyan?’ I asked.
‘Thirty,’ he answered.
Nino looked up. ‘Thirty?’ she said. ‘Then we won’t see you in our town much longer, I suppose.’
‘Why’s that, Princess?’
‘Your age group has already been called up.’
He laughed aloud, his eyes protruding and his stomach wobbling: ‘Unfortunately, Princess, cannot go to war. My doctor has found an incurable empyem of the kidney atrabilarian, so I have to stay behind.’ The name of the illness sounded exotic, and made me think of stomach ache. Nino’s eyes opened wide.
‘Is that a very dangerous illness?’ she asked full of sympathy.
‘It depends. With the help of a doctor who knows his business any illness can become dangerous.’
Nino was astonished and disgusted. Melik Nachararyan was a member of the noblest family in Karabagh. His father was a general, and he himself as strong as an ox, as healthy as anyone could possibly be, and unmarried. When he was leaving our box I asked him to dine with us. He thanked me politely and accepted. The curtain rose, and Nino put her head on my shoulder. During the famous Tschaikovsky waltz she raised her eyes to me and whispered: ‘Compared to Nachararyan you are quite a hero. At least you have no kidney atrabilarians.’
’Armenians have more imagination than Mohammedans.’ I tried to excuse Nachararyan.
Nino kept her head on my shoulder even when the heroic tenor Lensky stepped in front of Eugene Onegin’s gun, and was killed, as per schedule. It was an easy, elegant and complete victory, and we felt we should celebrate. Nachararyan was waiting for us at the entrance. He had a motor car, which looked very elegant and European standing next to the two-horse carriage of the House of Shirvanshir. We drove through our town’s dark alleys, passing our two schools. At night these buildings seemed to look a bit more friendly. We stopped at the City Club’s marble staircase. That was rather dangerous. But if one of the escorts is called Shirvanshir and the other Nachararyan, a Princess Kipiani need not worry about the Lyceum of the Holy Queen Tamar’s rules and regulations.
The wide terrace was brightly lit by white lamps. We took a table that overlooked the governor’s dark garden, the softly gleaming sea, and the lighthouse of the island of Nargin. The glasses clinked. Nino and Nachararyan were drinking champagne. But as nothing in the world, not even Nino’s eyes, could make me drink in public, I sipped, as usual, an orangeade. When the six-man dance band gave us a rest at last, Nachararyan said seriously and thoughtfully: ‘Here we are, representatives of the three greatest Caucasian people: a Georgian, a Mohammedan, an Armenian. Born under the same sky, by the same earth, different and yet the same, like God’s Trinity. European, and yet Asiatic, receiving from East and West, and giving to both.’
‘I always thought,’ said Nino, ‘that fighting was the Caucasian’s element. Yet here I am, sitting between two Caucasians, neither of whom wants to fight.’
Nachararyan looked at her indulgently: ‘We both want to fight, Princess, but not against each other. There is a high wall between us and the Russians. That wall is the Caucasus. If the Russians win our country will become completely russified. We will lose our churches, our language, our identity. We will become European-Asiatic bastards, instead of forming the bridge between the two worlds. No, whoever fights for the Czar fights against Caucasia.’
Nino’s lips spoke her school learning: ‘Persians and Turks tore our country apart. The Shah destroyed the East, the Sultan the West. How many Georgian girls became slaves, dragged far away into the harems! The Russians did not even come of their own accord. We asked them to come. George XII abdicated voluntarily in the Czar’s favour. “Not to enlarge the already illimitable territories of our empire do we take upon us the protection of the Kingdom of Georgia” … don’t you know these words?’ Of course we did. For eight years these words had been drummed into us at school, this manifesto that Alexander I had decreed for us a hundred years ago. They could be seen in the main street of Tiflis, engraved on a bronze plaque: ‘Not to enlarge the already illimitable territories of our Empire do we take upon us …’ Nino was not so far wrong. The harems of the Orient were at that time full of captive Christian women, the streets of Caucasian towns full of Christian corpses. I could of course have answered: ‘I am a Mohammedan, you are a Christian, you were given to us by God as our legitimate prey.’ But I kept silent and waited for Nachararyan’s answer.
‘Well, you see, Princess,’ he said, ‘a person who thinks in terms of politics must have the courage sometimes to be unfair, even to be injust. I concede: the Russians brought peace to the country. But we, the people of Caucasia, can now keep that peace without them. They pretend that they must protect us, one against the other. Therefore Russian regiments are here, Russian civil servants and governors. But Princess, say for yourself: do you have to be protected from me? Must I be protected from Ali Khan? Were we not, all of us, sitting peacefully together near the well of Pechapür? Surely the time is past when the Caucasian peoples ha
d to think of Persia as an enemy. The enemy is in the north, and this same enemy is trying to tell us that we are children, who have to be protected from each other. But we are not children any more, we have been grown up for quite some time.’
‘And is that why you are not going to war?’ asked Nino.
Nachararyan had drunk too much champagne. ‘Not only because of that,’ he said. ‘I am lazy, and I like my comforts. I hold it against the Russians that they confiscated the Armenian Church Estates, and it is nicer here than in the trenches. My family has done enough for fame. I am a hedonist.’
‘I think in a different way,’ I said. ‘I am no hedonist, and I love war.’
‘You are young, my friend,’ said Nachararyan, and lifted his glass again. He went on talking for a long time, and probably very cleverly. When we started for home Nino was nearly, but not quite convinced, that he was right. We went in Nachararyan’s car. ‘This wonderful town,’ he said during the drive, ‘the Gate of Europe. If Russia were not so reactionary we’d already be a European country.’
I thought of the happy days of my geography lesson and laughed aloud. It had been an enjoyable evening. When we said good night I kissed Nino’s eyes and hands, while Nachararyan looked at the sea. Later he drove me to the Zizianashvili Gate … further than that the car could not go. Behind the wall was Asia. ‘Will you marry Nino?’ was the last thing he asked.
‘Inshallah, if it is God’s will.’
‘You will have to overcome a few difficulties, my friend. If you should need any help—I’m at your disposal. I’m all for intermarriage between the first families of our people. We must stand together.’
I pressed his hand warmly. It just showed: there really were decent Armenians. This was quite a disturbing thought. Tired, I went into the house. The servant was squatting on the floor, reading. I glanced at the book. The Koran’s Arabic ornamental script meandered over the pages. The servant rose, saluting me. I took the divine book and read: ‘Oh you, who you believe, behold that wine, gambling and pictures are an abomination and the work of Satan. Avoid them, and you may fare well. Satan is trying to turn you from the thought of Allah and from prayer.’ A sweet fragrance drifted from the pages. The thin, yellowish paper rustled. God’s word, enclosed between two leather covers, was severe and warning. I returned the book, and went up to my room. The divan was wide, low and soft. I closed my eyes, as I always do when I want to see with special clarity. I saw champagne, Eugene Onegin at the ball, Nachararyan’s light sheep’s eyes, Nino’s soft lips, and the enemy’s hordes flooding over the mountain wall to conquer our town.
Monotonous singing sounded from the street. It was Hashim the Lovelorn. He was very old, and no one knew the love he mourned for. People honoured him by giving him the Arabic name of Madjnun, the Love-Sick. At night he would slink through the empty alleys, sit down at some corner, weep, and sing of his sorrow till dawn. The monotonous melodies sent me to sleep. I turned to the wall and sank into darkness and dreams. Life was still wonderful.
11
A stick has two ends: an upper and a lower one. Turn the stick upside down, and the upper end is down, while the lower end is now up. But the stick itself has not changed at all. Thus it is with me. I am still the same as a month ago, a year ago. The same war goes on in the great world, and the same generals are victorious or defeated. But those who only a short while ago called me a coward now lower their eyes when they meet me: friends and relatives now praise my wisdom, and my father looks at me admiringly. But the stick itself has not changed at all. One day rumours were flying all round the town: His Imperial Majesty the Sultan of the High Ottoman Empire, Mehmed V. Rashid, had decided to declare war on the world of the unbelievers. His victorious armies were moving eastward and westward, to free the believers from Russia’s and England’s yoke. The Holy War had been declared, it was said, and the Prophet’s green banner was fluttering over the Khalif’s palace. So I became a hero. Friends came to see me, speaking highly of my foresight. I had been quite right in refusing to go to war. A Mohammedan should never fight against the Sultan. The Turks, our brothers, would come to Baku, and united with the Turks our people would become one big nation of believers.
I kept silent, and bowed, without answering their praises. The wise man must not let himself be disturbed by either praise or blame. My friends spread out maps. They quarrelled violently about through which part of the town the Turks would come marching in. I stopped the quarrel by pointing out that, regardless of which direction they might come from, the Turks would most definitely come in through the Armenian quarter. My friends looked at me admiringly and again praised my wisdom.
Man’s soul changes overnight. No Muslim rushed to take up arms any more. Iljas Beg had suddenly tired of war, and Seinal Aga had to pay an enormous amount of money to get him back to Baku garrison. The poor fellow had passed his Officers’ Exam just before the Turkish declaration of war, and the miracle had happened: even Mehmed Haidar had managed to pass. Now they were both lieutenants, sitting in their barracks, envying me, who had not sworn alliance to the Czar. There was no way back for them. No one had forced them. They had pledged their oath voluntarily, and I would have been the first to turn from them if they had broken it.
I was very quiet in those days, for I could not think clearly. Only once in a while I went out in the evening and walked quickly to the little mosque near the fort. There, in an old house, lived an old school friend of mine, Seyd Mustafa. He was a descendant of the Prophet. His face was pockmarked, he had small slit eyes, and he wore the green sash of his rank. His father was the Imam of the little mosque, and his grandfather a famous sage at the grave of Imam Reza in the Holy Town of Meshed. He prayed five times a day. He wrote the name of the godless Khalif Jesid with chalk on the soles of his feet, so as to tread daily into the dust the name of him who hated the True Faith. On the tenth of Moharram, the Holy Day of Mourning, he tore the skin of his breast till the blood flowed. Nino thought him bigoted and despised him for it. I loved him for the clarity of his vision, for like no one else he could distinguish between good and bad, truth and untruth.
He greeted me with the gay smile of a wise man. ‘Have you heard, Ali Khan? That rich Jakub Oghly has bought twelve crates of champagne to drink with the first Turkish officer who comes to this town. Champagne! Champagne in honour of the Mohammedan Holy War!’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘That surprises you, O Seyd? The world has gone mad.’
‘Allah leads astray those against whom he has turned his wrath,’ Seyd said grimly. He jumped up and his lips trembled. Yesterday eight men deserted to fight in the Sultan’s army. Eight men! I ask you, Ali Khan, what do these eight think they’re doing?’
‘Their heads are as empty as the stomach of a hungry ass,’ I replied cautiously.
Seyd’s fury knew no bounds: ‘Look!’ he cried, ‘Shiites are fighting for the Sunnite Khalif! Has not Jesid shed the blood of the Prophet’s grandson? Has not Moawia murdered Ali, whose name be praised? Who is the Prophet’s heir? The Khalif or the Unseen, the Imam of Eternity, in whose veins flows the Prophet’s blood? For centuries the people of the Shiites have been mourning, blood has been flowing between us and the renegades, who are worse than the unbelievers. Shia here—Sunna there—there is no bridge between us. It is not so very long ago that Sultan Selim had forty thousand Shiites slaughtered. And now? Shiites are fighting for the Khalif, who has stolen the Prophet’s heritage. Everything is forgotten: the blood of the devout, the mystery of the Imams. Here in our Shiite town, men are longing for the Sunnites to come and destroy our faith. What does the Turk want?! Enver has advanced even to Urmia. Iran will be cut in half. The True Faith is destroyed. O Ali, come with your sword of flame, pass sentence on the renegades! O Ali, Ali …!’ His tears were flowing, he beat his breast with his fist.
I looked at him, shaken. What was right, what was wrong? True, the Turks were Sunnites. And yet my heart longed to see Enver coming to our town. What did that mean? Had our martyrs’
blood really flowed in vain? ‘Seyd,’ I said, ‘the Turks are of our blood. Their language is our language. Turan’s blood flows in both our veins. Maybe that is why it is easier to die under the Half Moon of the Khalifs than under the Czar’s Cross.’
Seyd Mustafa dried his eyes: ‘In my veins flows Mohammed’s blood’, he said coolly and proudly. ‘Turan’s blood? You seem to have forgotten even the little you learned at school. Go to the mountains of the Altai, or yet further to the border of Siberia: who lives there? Turks, like us, of our language and our blood. God has led them astray, and they have remained pagans, they are praying to idols: the water-god Su-Tengri, the skygod Teb-Tengri. If these Jakuts or Altai-men were to become powerful and fight us, should we Shiites be glad of the pagan victories, just because they are of the same blood as we?’
‘What are we to do, Seyd?’ I asked. ‘Iran’s sword is rusty. Whoever fights against the Turks is helping the Czar. Should we in Mohammed’s name defend the Czar’s Cross against the Khalif’s Half Moon? What shall we do, Seyd?’ Mustafa was shrouded in a terrible sadness. He looked at me, and it seemed that all the despair of a dying millennium was in his eyes.
‘What shall we do, Ali Khan? I do not know.’ He was in agony, yet even now he did not hide behind empty phrases.
I fell silent, perplexed. The little oil lamp was smoking. In the small circle of light the prayer rug’s colours were gleaming, like flowers in a garden that can be folded up and taken on a journey. And Seyd Mustafa was only in this world as if on a journey, so it was easy for him to condemn other people’s sins. In another ten or twenty years he would be an Imam at the grave of Reza in Meshed, one of those sages who guide Persia’s fate, unseen and unperceived. Already he had the tired eyes of an old man, who knows of his old age and embraces it. He would not give away an inch of the True Faith, even though by doing so he could make Persia great and mighty again. Better to go under than find the will-o’-the-wisp of earthly splendour by passing through the morass of sin. And so he was silent and did not know what to do. And so I love him, the lonely guard on the threshold of our True Faith. ‘Our fate is in Allah’s hand, Seyd Mustafa,’ I said, getting off the subject, ‘may God lead us on the right way. But tonight I wanted to talk to you about something else.’ Seyd Mustafa looked at his henna-stained nails. An amber rosary was gliding through his fingers. He looked up, and his pockmarked face became one broad grin.