by Kurban Said
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and it sounded so sad and forlorn that it tore at my heartstrings. I sat down and took her hand:
‘Look—I would be just as unhappy in Paris as you were in Persia. This time it would be I who would feel exposed to some malignant force. Remember how you felt in the harem of Shimran. For me it would be just as impossible to live in Europe as it was for you to live in Asia. Let’s stay in Baku, where Asia and Europe meet. I cannot go to Paris where there are no mosques, no old wall, and no Seyd Mustafa. I must feel Asia once in a while if I have to bear with all these strangers who are coming here. I would hate you in Paris as you hated me after Moharram. Not immediately when we get there, but some day, after a fancy dress party, or a ball, I would suddenly start to hate you in this strange world you’re trying to force me into. And that’s why I want to stay here, come what may. I was born in this country, and I want to die here.’ She had not said a word. When I stopped she bent over me, and her hand caressed my hair: ‘Forgive your Nino, Ali Khan. I have been very stupid. I don’t know why I should think that it would be easier for you to change than for me. We’ll stay here, and not say another word about Paris. You keep your Asiatic town, and I’ll keep my European house.’ She kissed me tenderly, her eyes shining.
‘Nino, is it very difficult, being my wife?’
‘No, Ali Khan, not difficult at all. It just needs some sense and understanding.’ Her fingers caressed my face. She was a strong woman, my Nino. I knew I had shattered her life’s dream. I took her on my knees: ‘Nino, when the child is born we’ll go to Paris, London, Berlin or Rome. We still have a honeymoon to come. And we’ll stay wherever you like, for a whole long summer. And every year we’ll go to Europe again, you know that I’m no tyrant. But my home I want to be in the country I belong to, because I’m the son of our desert, our sun and our sand.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and a very good son too. We’ll forget Europe. But your child that I carry shall not be a child of the desert or the sand, but just the child of Ali and Nino.’
‘Yes,’ I said, and knew that I had agreed to be the father of a European.
29
‘Your birth was a very difficult one, Ali Khan, and in those days we did not call European doctors to our women.’ My father was sitting with me on the roof of our house, his voice was soft and plaintive: ‘When the birthpains became too bad we gave your mother turquoises and diamonds, ground to a powder. But that did not do much good. When you were born we put the navel cord close to the eastern wall of the room, together with a sword and the Koran, so you should become devout and brave. Later you wore it round your neck as an amulet, and you were always a healthy child. But when you were three you threw it away, and then you started to become sickly. At first we tried to lure the illness away, and put wine and sweets into your room. We had a coloured cock run across and out of the room, but the illness did not run out after it. Then a wise man from the mountains came and brought a cow. We slaughtered the cow, and the wise man cut her stomach open and took the innards out. He then put you into the cow’s stomach. When he took you out after three hours your skin was quite red. But you’ve never had a day’s illness since then.’ A long muffled cry came from the house. I sat straight and motionless, my whole being concentrated in listening. The cry came again, long drawn out and plaintive. ‘Now she’s cursing you,’ my father said quietly. ‘All women curse their husbands when they give birth. In former times after the child had been born, the woman had to slaughter a ram and to spray her husband’s and the child’s mats with the blood, to turn away the disaster she had called down on them during her labour.’
‘How long can it take, father?’
‘Five hours, six hours, maybe ten hours. Her hips are slim.’ He fell silent. Perhaps he was thinking of his own wife, my mother, who had died when I was born. Then he got up. ‘Come,’ he said, and we went to the two red prayer rugs lying in the middle of the roof, the top ends turned towards Mekka, towards the Kaaba. We took our shoes off, stood on the carpets and folded our hands, covering the back of the left hand with the palm of the right: ‘This is all we can do, but it is more than all the doctors’ wisdom.’ He bent forward and spoke the Arabic prayer: ‘Bismi Ilahi arrahmani rahim—In the name of God, the All-Merciful, the All-Compassionate …’ I followed his lead. I knelt on the prayer rug, my forehead touching the floor: ‘Ahamdu lillahi rabi-l-alamin, arrahmani, rahim, maliki jaumi din—Praised be God the Lord of All the Worlds, the All-Merciful, the All-Compassionate, the Lord of the Last Judgment …’ I was sitting on the rug, my hands covering my face. Nino’s cries still sounded from below, brushing my ears, but I was past comprehension. My lips formed the sentences of the Koran, as if they were not part of me any more: ‘Ijjaka na budu waijjaka nastain—it is you we worship, and it is you we beg for mercy …’ My hands were on my knees. It was very quiet, and I heard my father whispering: ‘Ihdina sirata-lmustaqim sirata lladina anammta alaihim—lead us on to the right way, on to the way of those in your grace …’ My face touched the prayer rug, I was lying on it, the red patterns disappearing before my eyes.
‘Gaira lmagdumi alaihim wala ddalin—of those against whom your wrath is not turned, those whom you do not lead astray …’ Thus we lay in the dust before the Lord’s face. Again and again we spoke the words of prayer, the words God gave to the Prophet in the foreign tongue of the Arab nomads. I sat on the rug crosslegged, the rosary gliding through my fingers, my lips whispering the thirty-three names of the Lord.
Someone touched my shoulder. I raised my head, saw a smiling face and heard words I did not comprehend. I rose. I felt my father’s glance on me and walked slowly down the stairs. In Nino’s room the curtains were drawn. I came to the bed. Nino’s eyes were full of tears, her cheeks sunken. She smiled quietly and then said in Tartar, in the simple language of our people, that she hardly spoke at all:
‘Kis dir, Ali Khan, Tshoch gusel bir kis. O kadar bahtiarim—It’s a girl, Ali Khan, a wonderful girl, I’m so happy.’ I took her cold hand and she closed her eyes.
‘Don’t let her go to sleep, Ali Khan, she must stay awake a little longer,’ some one said behind me. I caressed her dry lips, and she looked up to me, tired and serene. A woman wearing a white apron came to the bed and held out a bundle to me. I saw a tiny wrinkled toy with little fingers and big expressionless eyes. The toy was crying, its small face distorted. ‘How beautiful she is,’ said Nino delightedly, and spread out her fingers, imitating the toy’s movements. I raised my hand and timidly touched the bundle, but the toy was already asleep, its face now very serious. ‘We’ll call her Tamar, in honour of the Lyceum,’ whispered Nino, and I nodded, for Tamar is a beautiful name, used by both Christians and Muslims. Someone led me from the room. Curious glances met me, and father took my hand. We went out into the courtyard.
‘Let’s ride into the desert,’ said my father, ‘Nino will soon be allowed to sleep.’ We mounted our horses and chased through the yellow sand dunes in a wild gallop. My father was saying something, but I could not really understand what. It seemed he was trying to comfort me, and I could not understand why, for I was very proud to have a sleeping wrinkled daughter with a serious face and big expressionless eyes
Days passed like pearls on a rosary. Nino held the Toy at her breast, at night she sang soft Georgian songs to it, and pensively shook her head looking at her small wrinkled double. To me she was cruel and haughty as never before, for I was only a man, who could neither bear children, nurse them or even change them. So I sat in my office in the Ministry, and she would graciously phone me to tell of great events and revolutionary deeds: ‘Ali Khan, the Toy had laughed, and it’s spreading its hands towards the sun.’
‘It’s a very clever Toy, Ali Khan, I showed it a glass ball, and it really looked at it.’
‘Listen, Ali Khan, the Toy is drawing lines on its stomach with its fingers. It seems to be a very talented Toy.’
But while the Toy was drawing lines on its stomach, and excitedly followe
d a glass ball with its eyes, people in far-away Europe played with borders, armies and states. I read the reports on my desk and looked at the maps, on which questionable future borders were drawn. Mysterious men, with names difficult to pronounce, were gathered at Versailles, ordering the Orient’s fate. One man only, a fair-haired Turkish General from Ankara, desperately tried to oppose the victors. Even though our country, Azerbeidshan, was now recognised by the European powers as a sovereign state, I could not share Iljas Beg’s enthusiasm, and it was rather awkward for me to have to disillusion him with the news that the English regiments would be withdrawn for good from the area of our now sovereign Republic.
‘Now we’re free forever,’ he cried joyfully, ‘no more foreigners on our country’s soil!’
‘Look here, Iljas Beg,’ I said and took him to the map, ‘our natural allies should be Turkey and Persia, but now they are both powerless. We’re hanging in mid-air, and from the north one hundred and sixty million Russians are pressing down on us, thirsting for our oil. As long as the English are here, no Russian, Red or White, dares to cross our borders. But once the English have left there’s just you and me, and our few regiments to defend our country.’
‘Never mind,’ Iljas Beg shook his head optimistically, ‘we’ve got our diplomats to make friendship treaties with the Russians. The army has other things to do. Here,’ he pointed to the south, we must go to the Armenian border. There is trouble in that area. General Mechander, the Minister of War, has already given the order.’ It was hopeless to try and convince him that diplomacy can only work if supported intelligently by the military forces. So the English regiments went, the streets were full of festive flags, our troops marched to the Armenian border, and in Jalama, our station at the Russian border, only a border control and a few Civil Servants remained. We at the Ministry started working on the treaties with both Red and White Russians, and my father went back to Persia. Nino and I saw him off the pier. He looked at us sadly and did not ask whether we would follow him.
‘What will you do in Persia, father?’
‘I’ll probably marry again,’ he said offhand. Then he kissed us ceremoniously and added thoughtfully: ‘I’ll come to see you from time to time, and if this state should fall apart—well, I’ve got some estates in Mazendaran.’ He stepped upon the gang-way, and waved for a long, long time, to us, to the old wall, to the Maiden’s Tower, the town and the desert, all fading slowly from his view. It was hot in town, and the blinds in the Ministry were half drawn. The Russian delegates came, their faces bored and cunning. Quickly and indifferently they signed the endless treaty, consisting of paragraphs, columns and footnotes.
Dust and sand covered our streets, the hot wind let torn pieces of paper flutter in the air, my illustrious inlaws went to Georgia for the summer, and at Jalama was nothing but the border control and a few Civil Servants. ‘Assadullah,’ I turned to the Minister, ‘thirty thousand Russians are standing opposite Jalama.’
‘I know,’ he said darkly, ‘our City Commandant thinks it’s just a scheme.’
‘And if it isn’t?’
He looked at me irritated. ‘We can’t do more than make treaties. Everything else is in God’s hand.’ A few staunch guards-men, their bayonets at the ready, were guarding the Parliament building. Inside the political parties were quarrelling, and in the suburbs the Russian workers threatened to strike if the government would not allow oil exports to Russia. The coffee houses were crowded with men reading newspapers, and playing Nardy. Children were scuffling in the hot dust. The sun’s flames poured over the town, and from the minaret came the call: ‘Rise for prayer! Rise for prayer! Prayer is better than sleep!’
I did not sleep, I was lying on the carpet, my eyes closed, but I kept seeing the dreaded vision of the border station of Jalama threatened by thirty thousand Russian soldiers. ‘Nino,’ I said, ‘it is hot, the Toy is not used to the sun, and you love trees, shadows and water. Would you like to go to your parents for the summer?’
‘No,’ she said severely, ‘I would not.’
I did not say another word, but Nino wrinkled her brow thoughtfully. ‘But we could go together, Ali Khan. It’s hot here in town, and your estate in Gandsha is surrounded by gardens and vineyards. Let’s go, you’re at home there, and the Toy can lie in the shade.’ I could not but agree. And so we took the train, the coaches of which were decorated with the full glory of the new Azerbeidshan coat of arms.
A long, wide, dusty road took us from the station to the town of Gandsha. Churches and mosques were surrounded by low-built houses. A dried-up river divided the Mohammedan quarter from the Armenian one, and I showed Nino the stone on which my ancestor Ibrahim had died a hundred years ago, killed by Russian bullets. On our estate, out of town, lazy bullocks were lying motionless in the water, only their heads showing. The smell of milk was in the air, and each grape in the big bunches was as big as a cow’s eye. The farmers had their heads shaved down the middle, and long hair combed forward right and left. The little house with the wooden verandah was surrounded by trees, and the Toy laughed when it saw the horses, dogs and chickens.
We settled down, and for weeks on end I forgot all about the Ministry, treaties and the border station of Jalama. We lay in the grass, and Nino chewed the bitter stalks. Her face caught the sun, and it was clear and peaceful like the sky over Gandsha. She was now twenty years old, and still far too slim for the Oriental taste. ‘Ali Khan, this Toy is mine alone. Next time it will be a boy, and you can have him.’ Then she made plans for the Toy’s future in great detail, with tennis, Oxford, English and French language courses, all European. I did not say anything, for the Toy was still very small, and there were thirty thousand Russians at Jalama. We played in the grass and had our meals on big carpets in the shade of the trees. Nino swam in the little river above the spot where the buffaloes took their bath. Farmers came to us, little round caps on their heads, bowed before their Khan, and brought baskets of peaches, apples and grapes. We did not read any newspapers, and did not get any letters. For us the world finished on the borders of our estate, and it was nearly as wonderful as in Daghestan.
One late summer evening we were sitting in our room when we heard a horse galloping wildly. I went out on the verandah, and a slim man in a black Tsherkess coat jumped off his horse. ‘Iljas Beg!’ I cried, and stretched out both hands in greeting. He did not reply, but stood there in the light of the oil lamp, his face ashen.
‘The Russians are in Baku,’ he said hastily.
I nodded, as if I had known all the time. Nino was standing behind me, and I heard her faint cry: ‘How did it happen, Iljas Beg?’
‘Trains came down from Jalama during the night, full of Russian soldiers. They surrounded the town, and the Parliament capitulated. All Ministers who could not get away were arrested and Parliament dissolved. The Russian workers joined their countrymen. There were no soldiers in town, and the army is in a lost position on the Armenian border. I’m collecting partisans.’ I turned round. Nino had disappeared into the house, while the servants came running to put horses to the carriage. She was packing, and talking softly to the Toy in the language of her ancestors. Then we were driving through the fields, Iljas Beg riding at our side. The lights of Gandsha were shining far away, and for a moment I felt past and present merging into one. I saw Iljas Beg, the dagger at his belt, pale and serious, and Nino, composed and proud, as she had been in the melon field at Mardakjany, a long long time ago. We arrived at Gandsha in the middle of the night. The streets were crowded, peoples’ faces excited and tense. Soldiers, their guns at the ready, were standing on the bridge that separated the Armenians’ and the Mohammedans’ quarters, and torches shed their light on the Banner of Azerbeidshan on the balcony of the Government building.
Here I sit, leaning my back against the wall of the big mosque of Gandsha, a plate of soup in my hand, looking at the tired soldiers, lying about the courtyard. Machine-guns are barking, and their vicious sound forces its way into the courtyard, and
the Republic of Azerbeidshan has only a few more days to live. I’m sitting here by myself. My book lies in front of me, and I’m filling it with hasty lines, so as to record the past once again. That’s how it was, eight days ago, in our little hotel in Gandsha:
‘You’re mad,’ said Iljas Beg. It was three o’clock in the morning, and Nino was asleep in the next room. ‘You’re mad,’ he repeated, walking up and down. I was sitting at the table, and Iljas Beg’s opinion was the least important thing in the world to me.
‘I’m staying here. The Partisans will come. We’ll fight, I’m not fleeing my country.’ I spoke softly, as in a dream. Iljas Beg stood before me, looking at me, sad and proud.
‘Ali Khan, we went to school together, and together we fought the Russians in the big breaks. I was riding behind you when you went after Nachararyan. I took Nino home on my saddle, and we fought together at Zizianashvili’s Gate. Now you must go— for Nino’s sake, for your own sake, for the sake of our country, that might need you again.’
‘You’re staying here, Iljas Beg, and I’m staying too.’
‘I’m staying because I’m alone in the world, because I know how to lead soldiers, and because I can offer our country the experience of two campaigns. Go to Persia, Ali Khan.’
‘I can’t go to Persia, and I can’t go to Europe either.’ I went to the window. Below on the street torches were burning and iron was clinking.
‘Ali Khan, our Republic has only a few more days to live.’ I nodded indifferently. People were passing the window, carrying weapons. I heard steps in the next room, and turned. Nino was standing in the door, sleepy-eyed.
‘Nino,’ I said, ‘the last train to Tiflis goes in two hours’ time.’
‘Yes. Let’s go, Ali Khan.’
‘No, you go with the child. I’ll come later. I have to stay here a little longer. But you must go. It’s not like that time in Baku. It’s all different now, and you can’t stay here, Nino. You’ve got your child now.’ I was talking, in the streets the torches were burning, and Iljas Beg stood in a corner, his head bowed. Sleep disappeared from Nino’s eyes. Slowly she went to the window and looked out. She looked at Iljas Beg, and he looked away. She came into the middle of the room and hung her head.