Joseph Anton: A Memoir: A Memoir

by Salman Rushdie

  The boss of British Airways, Bob Ayling, had finally agreed to see him. He talked about his encounter with Zafar and how deeply it had moved him. A crack appeared in the closed door. He went to Clarissa’s house on Burma Road after a long time. Zafar was having a party to celebrate the imminent beginning of his life as a university student at Exeter. His son was delighted to hear what Ayling had said, to feel that he had helped his father. And then, that evening, the television, radio and telephone all went insane.

  CNN broke the story. President Khatami of Iran had declared the death threat “over.” After that he was on the phone all night. Christiane Amanpour told him that she was “certain that it’s happening,” and that she had off-the-record quotes from Khatami that more would happen soon, and that he had reached a “consensus” with Khamenei about it. At 9:30 P.M. “his” new man at the Foreign Office, Neil Crompton, called and asked for a meeting at 10:30 the next morning. “Something’s clearly happening,” he said. “It’s probably good news. Let’s put our heads together.”

  At the Foreign Office there was a feeling of mounting excitement. “Okay,” he said, “but we must have unequivocal language on the fatwa and the bounty. The British government must be able to make a clear statement that it’s over. Otherwise we’ll be letting Iran off the hook and allowing a deniable hit by hard-liners or Hezbollah. If it’s good news then Mr. Blair should say so. Their top man is speaking, and so ours should as well.” The UN General Assembly was in session in New York. British and Iranian officials were meeting that afternoon to discuss the case. The two foreign ministers, Robin Cook and Kamal Kharrazi, were to meet the next morning. It seemed that Iran really wanted to make a deal.

  Robin Cook called him at 9 A.M. on the twenty-fourth—four A.M. in New York!—and told him what he thought could be achieved. “We’ll get a guarantee, but the fatwa will not be formally revoked, because they say it can’t be now that Khomeini is dead. There seems to be no hard-liner activity in Iran. This is the best deal we’re likely to get. This is the strongest language we’ve ever heard from them.” So here he was at last between the rock and the hard place. The bounty and fatwa would stay but the Iranian government would “dissociate” itself from them, and “neither encourage nor permit” anyone to carry out the threat. Robert Fisk in The Independent was saying that this was no longer a matter of interest in Iran. Was that true? In the best-case scenario, Cook was right, the Iranians were making a genuine commitment and really wanted to put this matter behind them, to draw a line under it, and the British government, too, would be putting its prestige on the line by accepting the deal, and any betrayal of that deal would make both sides look foolish. The main threat to his life had always come from the MOIS, the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security, and if they were being “stood down” then that was something Mr. Afternoon and Mr. Morning could presumably confirm. And a high-profile public agreement would make everyone feel that the story was over. De facto would lead to de jure.

  And in the worst-case scenario, the hard-liners would go on trying to kill him, and, once his protection had been withdrawn, they would succeed.

  That afternoon at 4 P.M. he met Frances D’Souza and Carmel Bedford at the Article 19 offices in Islington, and all three of them were very worried. The deal sounded inadequate, not enough was being offered, but if he did not react positively he could be portrayed as obstructive, while if he did then the defense campaign would lose all bargaining power. His only hope, he told Frances and Carmel, was that both governments’ credibility rested on the deal.

  The three of them went to the Foreign Office to meet Derek Fatchett at 5:20 P.M. He had always liked Fatchett, a decent, straightforward man, and now Fatchett was looking him in the eye and saying, “The deal is genuine, the Iranians are committed, all segments of the leadership have agreed. I’m asking you to trust the British government. You should know that Neil Crompton and his colleagues here at the FCO have been negotiating this for months, being as tough as they can. They are all sure that Iran is serious.” “Why should I believe it?” he asked Fatchett. “If they aren’t canceling anything, why shouldn’t I conclude that this is all bullshit?” “Because,” Fatchett said, “in Iran nobody bullshits about the Rushdie case. These politicians are risking their careers. They would not do it unless they were certain of support from the highest level.” Khatami had just returned to Tehran from the general assembly, where he had declared that “the Salman Rushdie issue was completely finished,” and was greeted and embraced at the airport by Khamenei’s personal representative. That was a meaningful sign.

  He asked about the security briefing he’d just had from Mr. Morning and Mr. Afternoon, in which he had been told there was no reduction in the threat to his life. “That’s out of date,” Fatchett said. He asked about Hezbollah in Lebanon and Fatchett said, “They aren’t involved.” He went on asking questions for a while and then suddenly something opened up inside him, a great emotion welled up, and he said, “Okay.” He said, “In that case, hurray, and thank you, thank you all, from the bottom of my heart.” The tears rose and the huge emotion silenced him. He hugged Frances and Carmel. The TV was turned on and there were Cook and Kharrazi side by side in New York, live on Sky News, announcing the fatwa’s end. He sat in Fatchett’s office in the Foreign Office and watched the British government do its level best to save his life. Then he went outside with Derek Fatchett and the cameras were waiting and he went up to them and said, “It seems it’s over.” “What does it mean for you,” asked the nice young woman holding the microphone. “It means everything,” he said, choking back the tears. “It means freedom.”

  When he was in the car Robin Cook called from New York and he thanked him too. Even the police were moved. “It’s very exciting,” said Bob Lowe. “A historic moment.”

  At home it took Elizabeth time to believe it but gradually the mood of rejoicing grew. Martin Bache, one of her oldest friends from her college days, was there, and Pauline Melville rushed over, so they each had one of their closest people with them, which felt right. And Zafar was there, more visibly moved than his father had ever seen him. And there was the phone, the phone. So many friends and well-wishers. William Nygaard called; perhaps the most important call of all. Andrew, weeping. He called Gillon to thank him too. He called Clarissa to thank her for her care of Zafar during these long hard years. One after another his friends telephoned. The ceremonies of joy, he thought. The day he had never expected had come. And yes, it was a victory, it had been about something important, not just his life. It had been a fight for things that mattered and they had prevailed, all of them, together.

  He called Christiane Amanpour and gave her a quote. Everyone else would have to wait for the press conference the next day.

  And if he had been living in a fairy tale he would have gone to bed and woken up a free man and the clouds would have been banished from the sky and he and his wife and children would have lived happily ever after.

  He was not living in a fairy tale.

  There are some people for whom this cannot be a great day. I would like to particularly think of the family of Professor Hitoshi Igarashi, the Japanese translator of The Satanic Verses, who was murdered. I would like to think about the Italian translator, Dr. Ettore Capriolo, who was knifed and happily recovered; and my distinguished Norwegian publisher, William Nygaard, who took a number of bullets in his back and mercifully has made a full recovery. Let us not forget that this has been a dreadful event, a dreadful event, and I would like to say also how sorrowful I feel about all the people who died in demonstrations, particularly in the subcontinent of India. It’s emerged that in many cases they didn’t even know who they were demonstrating against or why and that was a shocking and terrible waste of life and I regret that equally with everything else that happened.

  The reason we’re here is to recognize the end of a terrorist threat by the government of one country against the citizens of other countries and that is a great moment and we should recogni
ze it as such. The reason why we have been able to fight this campaign, why so many people created defense committees around the world, the reason why this issue has been kept alive is not just that somebody’s life was in danger—because the world is full of people whose lives are in danger—the reason is that some incredibly important things were being fought for here: the art of the novel, and beyond that, the freedom of the imagination and the overwhelming, overarching issue of freedom of speech, and the right of human beings to walk down the streets of their own countries without fear. Many of us who were not politicians by inclination have been prepared to become political animals and fight this fight because it was worth fighting, not just for myself, not just to save my skin, but because it represented many things in the world that we most care about.

  I don’t think it’s a moment to feel anything except a serious and grave satisfaction that one of the great principles of free societies has been defended.

  I’d like to thank all the people who have helped in that fight. Frances and Carmel and Article 19 and the defense committees in the United States, Scandinavia, Holland, France, Germany and elsewhere have been essential. This is a fight which ordinary people have fought. At the end of it there has been a political negotiation which has resulted in this happy ending. But the struggle succeeded because of ordinary people readers, writers, booksellers, publishers, translators and citizens. It is everybody’s day, not just my day. I think we should just recognize that behind the issues of terrorism and security and Special Branch protection and how much it costs and all that, there is this fundamental thing that we have tried to defend, and it has been a privilege to be allowed to defend it.

  He spoke without notes, extempore, to the press thronging the Article 19 offices and he also thanked Elizabeth and Zafar for their love and support. He was filmed walking down Upper Street in Islington by himself, a “free man,” and he lifted a sheepish, doubtful fist into the air. Then there was a day of interviews. He got home thinking that the day had gone well and found waiting for him an editorial in the Evening Standard describing him as a social irritant and a nasty piece of work. And on the BBC and ITN news programs the angle was “No apology.” That was the British media’s spin on the day’s events. This social irritant and nasty piece of work had refused, after everything, to apologize for his awful book.

  That Sunday he took Zafar to Exeter University, and Elizabeth and Clarissa came too. As Zafar entered his room in Lopes Hall his face fell and misery overcame him. They tried to give him comfort and support but soon it was time to leave. It was a hard moment for Clarissa. “He doesn’t need us anymore,” she said, and had to lower her head to hide her tears. “But he does,” he told her. “He isn’t going anywhere. He loves us both and will stick around. He is just growing up.”

  They got back to London late to find that the “no apology” British TV stories had been translated in Iran as “insulting remarks,” and here was the Iranian ambassador-elect Muhammadi restating the fatwa and the Iranian papers were calling for him to be murdered and saying that if he believed himself safe he would just be easier to kill. Had he been sold out, he wondered, and at the same time knew that he had to continue to free himself of the shackles of security, even if that did make him easier to assassinate.

  Two days later he was back at Spy Central for a joint meeting between Mr. Morning and Mr. Afternoon representing the security services, a certain Michael Axworthy representing the Foreign Office, and himself. To his horror Mr. Afternoon and Mr. Morning both said that they could not guarantee his safety from either the Iranian Revolutionary Guards (the feared pasdaran, the ruthless “protectors” of the Islamic revolution), or the proxy killers of the Lebanon Hezbollah, and as a result they refused to reduce the level-two threat assessment. These were issues on which he had specifically pressed Derek Fatchett and had been given categorical guarantees, Fatchett even saying that the security services’ information was out of date. It became clear that the security services, as well as Scotland Yard, were furious with the Foreign Office for rushing into a settlement. They said it would take them until Christmas at least to verify the Iranian position and there was no guarantee that they would come up with a good result.

  It was at this point that he began to shout at Michael Axworthy, who began to sweat and shake. He had been lied to, he yelled, he had been given the lie direct, and the Foreign Office was full of tricksters and duplicitous bastards. Axworthy left the room to make a call and returned to say, with commendable self-control, that Robin Cook would call him the next day at 11:40 A.M. exactly.

  Then a meeting at Scotland Yard at which there was much police sympathy for his anger. Richard Bones, the Special Branch officer who had been at the meeting with the intelligence scervices, sitting quietly in the background, said, “You’ve been treated terribly. Your analysis is spot-on. I will bear witness for you if you ever need it.” The police agreed that they would continue his protection as before until the situation had been clarified. And as he calmed down it did occur to him that things in Iran might settle down after the initial shock of the deal. So far the senior mullahs had not condemned the agreement. Maybe he just needed to give it time, and by Christmas he would be free.

  In the morning Robin Cook called to reassure him of the government’s commitment to making sure the problem was solved. “I’m disappointed in the security analysis you were given,” he said. “I’ve asked for an SIS reading by the end of the week.” Cook agreed with him that there could, should, be a positive result by Christmas: in three months’ time.

  More than three years would elapse before Mr. Morning and Mr. Afternoon started feeling positive.

  The backlash against the Cook-Kharrazi declaration became more and more severe. Half the Iranian Majlis signed a petition calling for the fatwa to be carried out. A mysterious new group of “radical students” offered a new £190,000 bounty for his death. (This turned out to be an error; the actual figure was £19,000.) The Khordad bonyad, or foundation, run by Sanei of the Bounty increased its offer by about $300,000. The Iranian chargé d’affaires, Ansari, was brought into the Foreign Office to receive a British protest, and blamed British press coverage and statements by British ministers and by Rushdie, which had “put the ministry of foreign affairs in Tehran under a lot of pressure—they hadn’t expected the news to be so big.” But he did renew Iran’s commitment to the New York agreement. Whatever that meant.

  Clarissa was worried. Two “Muslim-looking men” had come to the house asking for Zafar by name, but he was away in Exeter, of course. She thought it might be because he was now on the electoral roll.

  Alun Evans, the British Airways executive who had been asked to liaise with him, and who was very much “on his side,” called to say that he believed BA was “on its way to change,” and that after a few “comparatively minor” matters were resolved they should be able to make a positive decision. “In a few weeks.” And he was right. A few weeks later, after nine and a half years of being banned from flying on the national carrier, he was welcomed back on board.

  The play of Haroun and the Sea of Stories opened, and it was an exceptional production, in which a suitably magical atmosphere was created at minimal expense, the sea made of billowing silk scarves, the actors all performing small magic tricks as they went about their business; and at the climactic moment when Haroun discovered the source of all stories, a torch played on the faces of the audience and identified it, the audience itself, as that treasured source. Once again, as had happened at the Hampstead book signing about which Commander Howley had made such a fuss, there were no demonstrations or security problems. It was just a good night out at the theater.

  He had sent the typescript of The Ground Beneath Her Feet to Bono to see what he thought of it, and to point out any obvious music-industry howlers that needed correcting. What happened was entirely unexpected. Bono telephoned to say that he had taken some of the lyrics from the text of The Ground Beneath Her Feet and written “a couple of melodies
.” “One of them is very beautiful,” he said. “The one from the title track in the book. It’s one of the most beautiful things we’ve ever done.” He grinned. He hadn’t known, he said, that novels had title tracks, but yeah, he knew which song Bono meant. All my life I worshipped her, / Her golden voice, her beauty’s beat. Bono wanted him to go to Dublin so he could play it for him. This was a novel about the permeable borderline between the imaginary and the real worlds, and here was one of its imaginary songs crossing that borderline and becoming a real song. A few weeks later he did go to Ireland and at Paul McGuinness’s place in Annamoe, County Wicklow, Bono made him go and sit in his car and listen to the demo CD there. The sound system in Bono’s car was not like the sound system in anyone else’s car. It was a major sound system. Bono played the track three times. He liked it the first time. It was nothing like the tune he had imagined in his head but it was a haunting ballad, and U2 was good at haunting ballads. He said he liked it but Bono kept playing it to make sure he wasn’t bullshitting, and when at last he was sure he said, “Let’s go in the house and play it to everyone else.”

  India announced it was lifting the ban on his visits. It was on the BBC Six O’Clock News. Vijay Shankardass was triumphant. “Very soon,” he said, “you will have your visa.” When he heard the news his feeling of sadness was at first greater than his joy. “I never thought,” he wrote in his journal, “that I would not anticipate going to India with pleasure, yet that is now the case. I almost dread it. Yet I will go. I will go to reclaim my right to go. I must maintain the connection for my sons’ sake. So that I can show them what I loved and what belongs, also, to them.” And yes, it was a Hindu nationalist BJP (Bharatiya Janata Party) government that was letting him in, and inevitably it would be said that his being given a visa was an anti-Muslim act, but he refused to inhabit the role of demon that had been constructed for him. He was a man who still loved the country of his birth in spite of his long exile and the banning of his book. He was a writer for whom India had been the deepest wellspring of his inspiration, and he would take the five-year visa when it was offered.