by Kurban Said
‘Thank you, Ali Khan. You are very good to me. We’ll stay in Baku.’
‘Nino, I think there’s no place like Baku.’
‘Oh? have you seen so many other towns?’
‘No, I haven’t. But if you like I’ll go round the world with you.’
‘And all the time you’d be homesick for the old wall and for soulful talks with Seyd Mustafa. But never mind. Stay as you are. I love you.’
‘You are right, Nino, I do love our homeland, all our town, every stone, every grain of sand in the desert.’
‘I know. How strange this is—this love for Baku. To the foreigners our town is just a hot, dusty, oil-smothered dull place.’
‘That’s because they’re foreigners.’
She put her arm round my shoulder. Her lips touched my cheek: ‘But we are not foreigners, never. Will you always love me, Ali Khan?’
‘Always, Nino.’
Our carriage was back at the station in town. Again we walked along Golovinsky Street, but this time with our arms around each other. On the left was a big park enclosed by beautifully wrought iron railings. At the closed gate two soldiers were on guard, motionless, as if made of stone, they did not even seem to breathe. Hovering majestically in its gilt splendour, the Imperial Eagle hung suspended over the barred gate. This was the residence of Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolayevitch, the Czar’s Governor of Caucasia.
Nino stopped suddenly. ‘Look,’ she said, pointing towards the park. Along an avenue of pine trees a tall, gaunt greyhaired man walked slowly past us. Now he turned and I recognised the big, coldly mad eyes of the Grand Duke. His face was long, his lips pressed together. In the shade of the pines he looked like a large noble wild animal. ‘I wonder what he’s thinking of, Ali Khan?’
‘Of the Czar’s crown, Nino.’
‘It would look good on his grey hair. What is he going to do?’
‘They say he’s going to overthrow the Czar.’
‘Come away, Ali Khan, I’m afraid.’
We turned away from the beautiful wrought iron trellis. Nino said: ‘You shouldn’t speak so badly of the Czar and the Grand Duke. They defend us against the Turks.’
‘They’re one half of the hot claws that crunch your country.’
‘My country? What about yours?’
‘For us it’s different. We are lying on the anvil and the Grand Duke holds the hammer. That’s why we hate him.’
‘And you love Enver Pasha. That’s stupid, you’ll never see Enver coming into our town. The Grand Duke will win.’
‘Allah Barif, only God knows,’ I said peacefully.
16
The Grand Duke’s armies were in Trapezunt, they conquered Erzerum, they overran the Kurdish mountains on the way to Baghdad. The Grand Duke’s armies were in Teheran, in Tabriz, even in Meshed, the Holy City. Half of Turkey and half of Persia were cowering under Nikolai Nikolayevitch’s dark shadow. At a meeting of Georgian noblemen he declared: ‘Obeying the Czar’s orders I will not rest until the golden Byzantine Cross is shining with new splendour on the cupola of the Hagia Sophia.’ The countries of the Half Moon were in a disastrous state. Only the Kotshis and Ambals, who lived in the little dark alleys still talked of the Osman’s might and the victorious sword of Enver Pasha. Persia had ceased to exist, and soon Turkey would cease to exist. My father had become very silent, and was often out. Sometimes he was bending over despatches and maps, whispering the names of the lost towns, then sitting for hours without moving, holding the amber rosary in his hand. I made the rounds of jewellers, florists and bookshops, buying presents for Nino. When I saw her, the war, the Grand Duke and the threatened Half Moon disappeared from my thoughts for hours on end.
One day my father said: ‘Stay in tonight, Ali Khan. Some people are coming, and we will discuss important things.’ He sounded a bit embarrassed, looking away. I understood, and teased him:
‘Did you not make me swear, father, never to have anything to do with politics?’
‘Caring for one’s people does not necessarily mean politics. There are times, Ali Khan, when it is one’s duty to think of one’s people.’
I had arranged to take Nino to the opera that night. Shaliapin was appearing that night as a guest artist, and Nino had been looking forward to this for days. I telephoned Iljas Beg. ‘Iljas, I’m busy tonight. Can you take Nino to the opera? I’ve got the tickets.’ A surly voice answered:
‘What an idea. You know I can’t please myself. I’m on night duty with Mehmed Haidar.’ I phoned Seyd Mustafa.
‘Sorry, but I really can’t. I have an appointment with the famous Mullah Hadshi Machsud. He is here from Teheran just for a few days.’ I rang Nachararyan. His voice sounded very embarrassed:
‘And why don’t you go, Ali Khan?’
‘We have guests.’
‘To make plans how to kill all Armenians? I really shouldn’t go to the theatre in these times when my people are bleeding to death. But as it’s you—and really Shaliapin is a wonderful singer.’ At last. A friend in need is a friend indeed. I told Nino and stayed at home.
Our guests arrived at seven o’clock, and they were exactly the people I had expected to see. In our great hall, sitting on the red carpets and soft divans, were assembled one thousand million rubles, or rather the men who between them commanded over one thousand million rubles. There were not many of them, and I had known them all for years. Seinal Aga, Iljas Beg’s father, was the first to arrive. His back was bent, his eyes had a veiled look. He lowered himself on to a divan, put his cane down, and thoughtfully started to eat a piece of Turkish delight. Then came two brothers: Ali Assadullah and Mirza Assadullah. Their father, the late Shamsi, had left them a dozen million rubles. The sons had inherited their father’s intelligence, but had also learned to read and write.
Mirza Assadullah loved money, wisdom and peace. His brother Ali was like Zarathustra’s fire, burning, but not burning to death. He was always moving around, and loved war, adventure and danger. Many stories were told about him in the country, stories of fights, assaults and bloodshed. Sullen Burjat Sadé, sitting next to him, did not love adventure, but love. He was the only one of us who had four wives, always bitterly at war with each other. He was very ashamed of this situation, but could not change his nature. When asked how many children he had he would answer sadly: ‘Fifteen or eighteen, how would I know, poor man that I am?’ And if asked about his millions he would give the same answer. Jussuf Oghly, sitting at the other end of the hall, looked at him with disapproval, and jealousy. He had only one wife, and it was said she was not good looking. On their wedding day she had told him: ‘If you squander your sperm on other women I’ll cut their ears off, and their noses and their breasts. And what I’ll do to you I don’t even want to say.’ As this woman’s kinsfolk had a well deserved reputation of being quick on the draw, her threat had to be taken seriously. So the poor man collected pictures.
The man who came into the hall at half past seven was very small and very thin. The nails of his delicate hands were tinted red. We all rose and bowed to him, honouring his misfortune. Ismail, his only son, had died a few years ago. The father had built a splendid house in Nikolai Street. The name ‘Ismail’ shone on the front in big golden letters, and the house was dedicated to Islamic charity. His name was Aga Musa Nagi, and he was a member of our circle only by virtue of his two hundred million rubles. For he was not a Muslim any more. He belonged to the heretic sect of the Ba’haists, founded by Bab, whom Shah Nasreddin had had put to death. Only very few of us knew what Bab’s teachings were. But we all knew, that Nasreddin had had red-hot needles put under the nails of Ba’haists, burnt them alive and flogged them to death. Very evil indeed must be the teachings of a sect that deserves such punishment.
At eight o’clock all guests had assembled. There they sat, the Oil Princes, drinking tea, eating sweets, and telling each other of their booming business, of their houses, their horses, their gardens and their losses at the green table in the casino. So they talked
till nine o’clock, as etiquette decreed. Then the servants cleared away the tea, closed the doors, and my father said: ‘Mirza Assadullah, son of Shamsi Assadullah, has given much thought to the fate of our people. Let us hear him.’ Mirza Assadullah raised his beautiful dreamy face:
‘If the Grand Duke wins there will not be one single Muslim country left on the map. Heavy will be the Czar’s hand. He will not touch us, who are here tonight, because we have money. But he will close our mosques and schools, and forbid us to speak our language. Strangers will overrun the land, for there will be no one to defend the people of the Prophet. If Enver wins it would be better for us, even if his victories were few. But can we do anything about it either way? I say we cannot. We have money, but the Czar has more. What shall we do? Perhaps we should give the Czar some of our money and some of our men. His hand might not be so heavy on us after the war, if we give him a batallion. Or is there another way?’ His brother Ali raised himself. He said:
‘Who knows, maybe after the war there won’t be a Czar anymore.’
‘Even so, my brother, there still would be too many Russians in our country.’
‘Their number can be reduced, my brother.’
‘We can’t kill them all, Ali.’
‘We can kill them all, Mirza.’
They were silent. Then Seinal Aga spoke, very softly, tired with age, and quite without expression: ‘No one knows what is written in the Book. The Grand Duke’s victories are no victories, even if he were to take Stamboul. The key to our destiny does not lie in Stamboul, but in the West. And there the Turks are victorious, even if they are called Germans there. Russians are occupying Trapezunt, Turks, are occupying Warsaw. Russians? are there any left? I have heard that a peasant—I believe his name is Rasputin—rules over the Czar, caresses the Czar’s daughters and calls the Czarina Mama. And there are Dukes who want to dethrone the Czar, and people who just wait for peace, so they can start a revolution. After the war everything will be quite different.’
‘Yes,’ said a fat man with brilliant eyes and a long moustache, ‘everything will indeed be different after the war.’ This was Feth Ali Khan of Choja, a lawyer by profession. We knew that he was always thinking about The People and Their Cause. ‘Yes,’ he added fervently, ‘and as everything will be so different we need not beg for anyone’s favours. Whoever wins this war will come out of it weak and covered with wounds, and we, who will be neither weakened nor wounded, will then be in a position to demand, not to beg. We are an Islamic, a Shiitic country, and we expect the same from the House of Romanov as from the House of Osman. Independence in everything that concerns us! And the weaker the great powers are after the war, the nearer is freedom for us. This freedom will come from us, from our unspent strength, from our money and our oil. For do not forget: the world needs us more than we need the world.’
The thousand million rubles assembled in the hall were very satisfied. Wait and see was a good policy. We have got the oil, the victors will have to beg for our favours. And what will we do till then? Build hospitals, children’s homes, blind people’s homes, for those who fight for our faith. No one could accuse us of lack of character. I sat in a corner, silent and angry. Ali Assadullah came across the hall and sat down next to me: ‘And what do you think, Ali Khan?’ Without waiting for an answer he bent forward and whispered: ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful to kill all Russians in our country? And not only the Russians—kill all these foreigners who talk and pray and think differently from us. We all want to do that, really, but I’m the only one who dares to say it aloud. And what then? As far as I’m concerned, Feth Ali can rule, though I prefer Enver. But first we must exterminate all foreigners.’ He spoke the word ‘exterminate’ with such tender longing, as if it meant ‘love’. His eyes shone, he smiled mischievously. I did not answer.
Now Musa Nagi, the Ba’haist, spoke: ‘I am an old man,’ he said, ‘and I am sad to see what I see, and to hear what I hear. The Russians are killing the Turks, the Turks are killing the Armenians, the Armenians would like to kill us, and we the Russians. Is this good? I do not know. We have heard what Seinal Aga, Mirza, Ali and Feth Ali think of our people’s fate. I understand they care deeply about schools, our language, hospitals and freedom. But what use is a school when what is taught there is nonsense, and what use is a hospital, if it is the body only that is healed there, and the soul is forgotten? Our soul strives to go to God. But each nation believes they have a God all to themselves, and he is the one and only God. But I believe it is the same God who made himself known through the voices of all sages. Therefore I worship Christ and Confucius, Buddha and Mohammed. We all come from one God, and through Bab we shall all return to Him. Men should be told that there is no Black and no White, for Black is White and White is Black. So my advice is this: let us not do anything that might hurt anybody anywhere in the world, for we are part of each soul, and each soul is part of us.’
We sat silent, nonplussed. So this was the heresy of Bab. Suddenly I heard loud sobbing, turned round and saw Assadullah, his face bathed in tears, and distorted with grief. ‘Oh my soul!’ he sobbed, ‘How right you are! What happiness to hear your words! O Almighty God! If only all men could find wisdom as profound as yours!’ Then he dried his tears, sighed deeply and added, noticably cooler: ‘Doubtlessly, venerated sir, the hand of God is above all our hands, but nevertheless, o fountain of wisdom, the truth is, that one cannot always depend on the Almighty’s merciful intervention. We are but men, and if inspiration fails, we have to find ways to overcome our difficulties.’ It was a clever sentence, as clever as his tears had been. Mirza was looking at his brother full of admiration. The guests rose. Slender hands touched dark brows, saluting. Backs bent low, lips murmured: ‘Peace be with you. May the smile remain on your lips, friend.’
The meeting was over. The thousand million rubles came out into the street and parted, nodding, saluting, shaking hands. It was half-past ten. The hall was empty and depressing. I felt very lonely. ‘I’m going to the barracks,’ I told the servant, ‘Iljas Beg is on night ‘duty.’ Down to the sea I went, past Nino’s house, to the big barracks. The guardroom windows shone brightly. Iljas Beg and Mehmed Haidar were rolling dice, and greeted me with silent nods. At last they finished. Iljas Beg threw the dice into a corner and undid his collar. ‘How did it go?’ he asked. ‘Did Assadullah swear again to kill all Russians?’
‘Just about. What’s the news from the war?’
‘War,’ he said, bored. ‘The Germans have occupied all Poland, the Grand Duke will be either stuck in the snow or occupy Baghdad. Maybe the Turks will conquer Egypt. Who knows? It’s a boring world.’
Mehmed Haidar rubbed his shorn pointed skull. ‘It’s not boring at all,’ he said. ‘We have horses and soldiers, and we know how to use our weapons. What more does a man need? One of these days I will go over the mountains, lie in the trenches and see an enemy before me. He should have strong muscles and his skin should smell of sweat.’
‘Why don’t you volunteer for the front if that’s what you want?’ I said.
Mehmed Haidar’s eyes were sad and lost under his low brow: ‘I can’t shoot at Mohammedans, even if they are Sunnites. But I can’t desert either. I have sworn my Oath of Allegiance. Everything should be quite different in our country.’ I looked at him and loved him. There he sat, with his broad shoulders, strong, simple face, nearly choked by his desire to fight: ‘I want to go to the front, and I don’t,’ he said sadly.
‘What should happen in our country?’ I asked him. He drew his brows together, but did not reply for quite some time. Thinking was not his strong point. At last he said: ‘Our country? We should build mosques. Let the earth have water. Our earth is thirsty. And it’s not a good thing that all these foreigners come and tell us how stupid we are. If we’re stupid, that’s our business. And then: I think it would be a very good thing if we made a big fire and burnt all those oil derricks. It would look lovely, and we’d all be poor again. And instead of the oil derricks I’d bu
ild a beautiful mosque, with blue tiles. We should get buffaloes, and plant corn on the oil land.’ He fell silent, dreaming of this vision. Iljas Beg laughed happily:
‘And then all reading and writing should be forbidden, we’d use candles instead of electricity, and elect the most stupid man king of the country.’ Mehmed Haidar did not rise to this legpull:
‘That’s all right,’ he said, ‘in the olden times there were many more stupid people about. And they built canals instead of oil derricks, and robbed the foreigners instead of letting them rob us. In those times people were happier then they are now.’ I felt like embracing and kissing the simple fellow. He spoke as if he himself were a chunk of our poor tortured earth. But suddenly a wild knocking at the door made me jump. I looked out. Seyd Mustafa rushed into the room. His turban hung to one side over his glistening brow. His green belt had come loose, his grey cape was dusty. He fell on a chair and gasped: ‘Nachararyan has kidnapped Nino. Half an hour ago. They’re on the road to Mardakjany.’
17
Mehmed Haidar sprang to his feet. His eyes had become quite small. ‘I’ll saddle the horses.’ He rushed out. The blood was pounding in my head, there was a drumming sound in my ears, and I felt an invisible hand beating my head with a stick. Iljas Beg’s voice came from far away: ‘Steady, Ali Khan, steady. Wait till we’ve got them.’ His narrow face was very pale. He put a belt round my waist, a straight Caucasian dagger hanging from it. ‘There,’ he said, and put a revolver into my hand, and again: ‘Steady, Ali Khan. Save your fury for the road to Mardakjany.’ Mechanically I put the weapon into my pocket. Seyd Mustafa’s pock-marked face came close to me, I saw the thick lips moving, and heard broken words: ‘I left my house to see the wise Mullah Hatshi Machsud. The tent of his wisdom stands next to the theatre. I left him at 11 o’clock. The sinful play had just ended. I saw Nino get into the car, Nachararyan with her. But the car did not start. They were talking. I did not like the look on Nachararyan’s face. I crept nearer, I listened. “No,” said Nino, “I love him.” “I love you more,” said Nachararyan, “no stone in this country will be left standing. I will save you from the claws of Asia.” “No,” said Nino, “take me home.” He started the motor. I jumped on the back. The car went to the Kipiani’s house. I could not hear what they were saying, but they were talking all the time. The car stopped at the house. Nino was crying. Suddenly Nachararyan embraced her and kissed her face. “You must not fall into the hands of these savages,” he cried, and then he whispered something, and I could only hear the end “… to my place at Mardakjany, we’ll get married in Moscow, and then we’ll go to Sweden.” I saw Nino pushing him away. Then the motor started again, and I jumped off and ran as fast as I could to …” He did not finish the sentence, or maybe I just did not hear the end. Mehmed Haidar came tearing through the door, and cried: ‘The horses are ready.’ We ran into the yard. The moon shone on the horses, standing there, stamping and neighing softly. ‘Here,’ said Mehmed Haidar. I looked at the horse and was struck numb. There stood the red-golden miracle of Karabagh, the horse of Melikov, the regiment’s Commanding Officer, one of the twelve golden horses in the whole world. Mehmed Haidar’s face was dark. ‘The Commander will go mad. No one but he ever rode this horse. It runs like the wind. Don’t spare it. You’ll catch them.’