A Hundred Sweet Promises

by Sepehr Haddad

  Not all the news is good news, though, as just a few months ago, I contracted typhoid from eating bad oysters, and I was confined to a nursing home for several weeks. What you may find of interest is that after my recuperation, I received an invitation to a private performance by the St. Petersburg Court Orchestra. They performed the new work of your fellow student at the conservatory, Stravinsky.

  I did enjoy the piece, even though I am no connoisseur of the symphony. The program notes mentioned his dedication “to my dear teacher, N.A. Rimsky-Korsakov,” which made me think of you and how you desired to return to apprentice under his tutelage. This Stravinsky has caused quite a stir in St. Petersburg music society, and some critics have even gone as far as to state that “he is breathing new life into what is considered a moribund Russian music scene.”

  Upon reading these last few sentences, Nasrosoltan suddenly felt a tremendous disappointment in the course his own life had taken, as he had not created any music of significance since he left Russia. He wondered if he had been wasting his time directing military bands in the middle of nowhere when he could have followed in the footsteps of the likes of Stravinsky, in the center for the arts, St. Petersburg.

  Nasrosoltan became so despondent that he almost did not finish reading the final paragraph of Rustam’s letter, which bore the news that would change the direction of his own life:

  Hopefully, you will soon return to further your music studies and write similar music; however, I am sorry to inform you, if you have not yet heard, that in June of this year, Professor Korsakov died after a long illness. The music community here is deeply saddened, as I am sure you are also when reading this. I never like to finish a letter to a dear friend on a sad note, so please forgive me if this is the first you have heard of this news.

  I am considering permanently moving to St. Petersburg from Georgia since my business now demands it. If I do, upon your return, it will allow us to see each other more often. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

  With great respect, your friend,

  Rustam

  Nasrosoltan could not believe that Professor Rimsky-Korsakov was dead. He now realized he would never have the chance to study with him and cursed himself out loud for having obeyed his father’s command to return. Nasrosoltan regretted not following his heart and staying in St. Petersburg, as the opportunity he desperately sought had now slipped through his fingers.

  Salar Moazaz was curious to know what was in the letter from St. Petersburg, and when he asked Nasrosoltan, a wave of despair descended over his son’s face.

  Nasrosoltan’s voice was tinged with sadness as he told him, “Father, I am sorry to tell you that your teacher Professor Rimsky-Korsakov passed away a few months ago, after a long illness.”

  Nasrosoltan let out a sigh as he fell into self-pity and continued hopelessly, “Now my dream of working with him is finished!”

  Salar Moazaz, who was also distraught by this news, gave Nasrosoltan a gentle pat on the back and tried to console him. “My son, in Persian, we have a saying, that death is a camel that kneels before every door! So we should have expected that at some point, we would hear this news. The professor was a kind and decent man, and he never treated the foreign students any different than the Russians. I do owe him much gratitude for his unique gift of teaching me the intricate details of harmony. Khoda-beeamorzatesh.” (“May God bless his soul.”)

  Salar Moazaz continued by asking, “So can I assume you will be postponing your return until a more favorable time, or better yet, not go back at all, since your whole purpose for returning to Russia was to work with the maestro, wasn’t it?”

  Nasrosoltan, who was still in deep anguish over the unexpected news, said nothing in response, so Salar Moazaz continued, “Although this is unfortunate news, it is a sign that you should stay and, as I have said before, serve your country. I need your help in educating the next generation of musicians, and who better to assist me in this endeavor than you?”

  Nasrosoltan was disturbed that his father wanted him to now stay even longer and responded defiantly, “Dear Father, no one understands better than you that, as a composer, I want to write music and have it performed for receptive ears. There are only a handful of people here in Persia who can even read the notes I put to paper, let alone appreciate the work once it is performed. I am already so far behind my peers. My friend Rustam, in his letter, mentioned that another conservatory student, Stravinsky, has already written and had a symphony performed in St. Petersburg. He has even received great praise in all reviews!”

  Salar Moazaz replied as if it was apparent, “Who stops you from writing the music you so wish to express? Is the ink or paper any different here than it is in St. Petersburg?

  “Can it be that you are using this as an excuse for the fact that you have not produced anything? It is natural, for I also have had moments where my writing is blocked. But as you can see, I have been able to write great music after many attempts and failures. It is the nature of artists to feel repressed, but then some event, such as was the case for me with the Constitutional Revolution, opens the channel of creativity. Even the recent travesty committed by Liakhov, shelling our treasured parliament building, has stirred up feelings in me that I use to write. I participate in the rebellion against what I feel is injustice through writing inspiring music.

  “You should use this time, right here and right now, to compose, and you will start seeing results. The same Professor Korsakov you so wished to have worked with wrote nationalistic music. You, too, can write soroods”—national and patriotic marches—“which our country is in dire need of!”

  Nasrosoltan became defensive and interjected, “But, Father, it is difficult to work where the culture does not value this new music and the musicians who perform it. I just heard from a friend who lives in southern Tehran that he has to carry his violin underneath his cloak whenever he leaves the house. Do you know why? It is for fear of the reactionaries taking it and breaking it since they despise music for their own demented reasons.”

  Salar Moazaz, displeased at being interrupted, replied, “Son, this is the exact reason I am asking for your assistance! We must change the culture that sees music as a threat or a vice but should instead see it as a vehicle for lifting the spirit. People are now divided in how they think of these matters.

  “Ours is a country that needs a unified identity. When someone comes to Tehran from Shiraz, that person feels he is in a different country, for he only considers his vatan”—homeland—“as the place he was born. However, in ancient Persia, one would travel thousands of miles and proudly still feel a part of the same great empire. You think that being written up in a St. Petersburg newspaper is the ultimate sign of success? But I believe being able, through the gift of music, to make that same Shirazi feel like he is part of a greater nation-state wherever he goes in this beautiful land of ours is the pinnacle of success. And yes, even though no newspaper will write your praise, your reward will truly be greater than that. This is where you should search for your legacy!”

  Nasrosoltan’s father went on with added fervor, “It was these same soroods and not the symphonies that you so desire to compose that were part of Persian culture before the Arab invasion centuries ago.”

  Nasrosoltan sat speechless, deep in thought, listening to his father ramble on. Salar Moazaz took advantage of the silence and continued by reminding his son of the proud history of Persia. “The victorious armies of Cyrus and Darius fought and conquered the known world at the time, with military musicians at their side in the field of battle, giving them courage through hearing these anthems.”

  Nasrosoltan countered, “Dear Father, I can see the role marches may have had in the history of our country, but we live in different times now. I want to write symphonies because I do not believe there is a great demand for ordinary marches.”

  Salar Moazaz took offense at his son’s belittling the writing of marches, which was his own specialty. He defended his argument, try
ing to convince Nasrosoltan one last time by adding passionately, “Even great European composers wrote and performed grand marches. The famous Austrian Strauss composed one such march, of all things, called ‘Persischer Marsch.”’ (“Persian March.”) “Isn’t it a shame that instead of a Persian, a European had to write a Persian march?”

  As he made this last comment, Salar Moazaz was visibly exasperated with trying to change his son’s mind, and he signaled that the conversation was over.

  A disheartened Nasrosoltan realized he was almost disrespecting his father with the continuous back-and-forth arguments, as he returned to his room to reflect upon their uncomfortable conversation.

  When he calmed down, he thought that his father was right; now that the professor had died, there was no immediate rush to return to St. Petersburg. Nasrosoltan decided that he would tell his father what he wanted to hear: that he would stay a bit longer. At the same time, he continued to plan for an eventual return to Russia to make his own mark as a composer.

  Nasrosoltan reluctantly agreed to his father’s request to teach at the Dar al-Funun music school. The school had been closed due to the conflict between the constitutionalists and the shah but was now set to reopen. Nasrosoltan spent the next year teaching and slowly realized that through instructing, he had redeveloped the desire to write music.

  As his pupils showed signs of progress in their understanding of the music, he derived a sense of real satisfaction. He recognized that his father was correct about the influence he could wield, especially with young, fresh, and fertile minds starting to develop the same passion he had for music. To Salar Moazaz’s delight, Nasrosoltan did what his father had suggested and began work on several marches.

  The one thing Nasrosoltan still missed, however, was the atmosphere of the cafés in St. Petersburg. There he would sit for hours drinking and discussing music with other conservatory students, debating the new music evolving right before their eyes. But in Persia, there were only a few with whom he could discuss such ideas, and this thirst to share his passion for music with like-minded composers deepened his longing to return to St. Petersburg.

  The longer he stayed in Persia, he worried he would lose the dream St. Petersburg represented. For him, this meant the freedom to create and thrive independently from his family obligations. Nasrosoltan was left suffering from this inner conflict, unsure of what to do next.

  At the same time, the volatile situation between his two beloved countries was also moving toward a climax. As neighboring countries, Russia and Persia had a long, complicated, and frequently competitive history.

  The recent Russian influence to support the shah finally resulted in a violent backlash by the Persian people. In July of 1909, with the help of resistance fighters from the north of Iran, the constitutionalists finally defeated Colonel Liakhov’s Russian-backed forces and conquered Tehran. Mohammad Ali Shah was able to escape to exile in Russia, and the Second Parliament, in an extraordinary meeting, replaced the fleeing shah with his eleven-year-old son, Ahmad Shah.

  This was welcome news for Salar Moazaz and Nasrosoltan, for they had both sided with the constitutionalists in spirit and despised Liakhov. Since the Russian colonel was the Cossack Brigade’s commander and Salar Moazaz had to report directly to him, his political feelings about Liakhov had created friction between them. Salar Moazaz finally felt relieved, personally, and for his country’s hope of reform, that Liakhov would be out of the picture once and for all.

  In honor of the liberation of Tehran, Salar Moazaz was inspired and wrote what was to become the first Persian national anthem. As his crowning achievement, Salar Moazaz was honored to have this piece performed at the new shah's coronation and again during the shah’s visit to Great Britain. This further intertwined nationalism and music, as the elder Minbashian had always wished.

  Chapter 12

  A Man of the Cloth

  During the summer of 1912, as was the custom with many well-to-do Persians, Nasrosoltan’s family moved from their home in Tehran to their summer garden in the foothills of the Alborz mountains. They did this to spend the hottest months of the season in a more favorable climate. The setting of this garden, with its simple cottage and surrounding wooded areas, including a creek of ice-cold water flowing down from the mountains, was a welcome relief from the hubbub of the capital city.

  The Minbashians were welcoming to guests on day trips from Tehran. They always made sure plenty of kababs were served alongside wine or the favorite arak (an anise-flavored, distilled alcoholic beverage). On many occasions, guests would bring along friends and family without prior notice, for Salar Moazaz enjoyed meeting new people and was known to be a gracious host.

  On Fridays, for entertainment, there would be many activities after lunch, such as reciting poetry and playing card games and backgammon. Most of these activities would take place on large wooden bedframes, covered in Persian carpets and lined with pillows. The guests could lean back or lie down as they wished, enjoying tea from the samovar or the cold watermelon and salted cucumber slices by their side.

  One such Friday, a cousin of Nasrosoltan named Abbasgholi Khan, who worked in the newly created Government Gendarmerie, came to the outing accompanied by a young and rather peculiar-looking man. When he introduced this man, Abbasgholi Khan announced, “Our guest today is also known to some as a man of the cloth!”

  Nasrosoltan, who was quite close with his cousin, inquired privately, “Dear cousin, why did you bring this man that no one knows to our gathering—and a cleric at that?”

  Abbasgholi Khan let out a hearty laugh, and to alleviate Nasrosoltan’s concern, he said, “This man is the furthest thing from a cleric. I met him at another gathering and thought to bring him to add to the after-lunch entertainment today. He is, in fact, a falgir”—fortune-teller—“and everyone will soon see why he is known as a man of the cloth!”

  Nasrosoltan was not pleased, as he did not believe in this type of superstition. He was always surprised how people could so readily rely on a cup of coffee or a deck of cards to divulge an unknown future and how they could even pay large sums for such a ridiculous pastime.

  In Russia, Nasrosoltan had seen the vast popularity and cultural impact fortune-telling had on the people and how it had also found acceptance among the most educated strata of St. Petersburg society. In fact, some people would not make any decision without consulting such seers for guidance.

  In Persia, this was one of the instances where Nasrosoltan agreed with the clerics who opposed fortune-telling. But his reason for not appreciating divination was different than theirs. Nasrosoltan believed fortune-tellers were plainly hoaxers and charlatans looking to fleece the uninformed. However, he did not attach any religious prohibition against this fascination, as the pious did while quoting their sacred texts.

  Abbasgholi Khan said, “Don’t worry; it’s all in good fun, but I have to admit I was so surprised at this man’s abilities and what he revealed about my own future that I just had to bring him.”

  Abbasgholi Khan moved closer to Nasrosoltan and lowered his voice to a whisper. “ The man is both deaf and mute, from birth, I believe.”

  Since the fortune-teller could not speak, he used an oversized piece of cloth with all kinds of words and numbers written on it. He would point to them when wanting to express what he foresaw in someone’s future. There were also several sizable rectangular dice that did not have numbers but instead had unintelligible symbols that only the falgir could decipher. He used these by rolling them and then writing out on a piece of paper, in formulaic fashion, a calculated final number which directed him to the word or number he would point to on the cloth.

  Nasrosoltan decided he was not going to partake in this charade. So, he sat by as several of the women had their fortunes told, with the falgir gesticulating wildly and grunting unintelligibly to get his point across. The ladies were bewildered and could not believe what they were witnessing.

  From their expressions, it seemed the man was
reading right through them with his accurate portrayals, leaving them in a state of both shock and amazement.

  One of the women turned to another to ask, “How can he know this?” Some laughed nervously, and others feigned anger, attempting to dispel the information his dice and cloth provided, which they did not want broadcast publicly. It pained Nasrosoltan’s conscience to see the fortune-teller deceiving these inquisitive women.

  Sensing Nasrosoltan’s disdain, the fortune-teller then turned to him and gestured to have his future told. Nasrosoltan shook his head to say no, but the man pointed to a word on his cloth in response. Nasrosoltan looked closer to see what word he alluded to, and it read fear.

  Nasrosoltan broke out in laughter and turned to Abbasgholi Khan and asked, “Is he trying to say I am afraid of him?”

  His cousin replied, “No, I think he means you fear hearing your fortune told.”

  Nasrosoltan dismissed the idea that he was fearful of a few words on a piece of cloth and the absurd formulas of a fraud. But after his cousin's repeated insistence, Nasrosoltan finally agreed to have his fortune told in the spirit of some afternoon fun.

  In the weeks leading up to this Friday gathering, Nasrosoltan had been preoccupied with the plans for his desired return to Russia. He had determined that even though Rimsky-Korsakov had died, he still wanted to pursue his music career in St. Petersburg.

  Nasrosoltan was finding it difficult to enjoy this get-together with friends and family. The source of his anxiety was a letter he had received a few days earlier from Rustam, replying to his inquiry as to whether the conservatory would readmit him for the next session. Rustam wrote: