I have met with the conservatory director through the introduction of a good friend. As fortune would have it, the new director is none other than your music professor when you had first come to St. Petersburg, Alexander Glazunov!
Glazunov says he remembers you fondly, as he does your father, and he seemed eager for you to continue your studies here. He mentioned that there are now specific new regulations that have been instituted after the reopening of the conservatory. One is that foreign students now need a letter of introduction from the Russian legation in their home country.
Glazunov has reassured me that since you have already been an alumnus of good academic standing at the conservatory, you are sure to be welcomed. Still, his hands are tied with this new decree, which is now a necessary requirement of readmittance, albeit a formality due to your prior relationship. He emphasized that the new session would begin in late September, so the conservatory would need your letter no later than the first week of September to reserve you a place.
This news caused Nasrosoltan much trepidation as the timing was tricky, leaving him only a few weeks to get the letter and send it on to St. Petersburg. But what disturbed him further was that when he went to the legation to get the letter, they told him that this was under the purview of the man he and his father both despised—Colonel Liakhov.
Liakhov was the barbaric man who ordered the shelling of their sacred parliament building and hunted down and executed several constitutionalist leaders. He was a man who believed blood spilled for his cause was blood well spilled, and he always told his troops that the constitution was their enemy. Everything about the man ran counter to the beliefs of the Minbashians.
Liakhov was pardoned by the constitutionalists after his surrender and the liberation of Tehran, as the Persian government feared retribution from the tsar if any harm came to him. After a while serving in the capital, the Russian colonel was now summoned back to St. Petersburg.
Nasrosoltan was engulfed in an internal battle between his burning desire to go back to St. Petersburg and his revulsion at asking Liakhov for the necessary letter. He did not pursue the matter any further once he realized the hated Russian would need to be involved. However, Nasrosoltan also recognized another year of work at the conservatory would be missed if he did not seek the colonel’s help.
Time was now of the essence, and in the days leading up to this Friday gathering, Nasrosoltan was slowly losing bits of his resolve. He came close to succumbing and almost made an appeal to his father for help, but he knew Salar Moazaz did not want the Russian’s name even brought up, let alone requesting any kind of assistance from him.
Nasrosoltan was lost deep in thought as to what to do about his situation when the falgir suddenly let out a shriek to get his attention. He then rolled the dice in his hand and let them loose on the carpet-covered wooden bed frame.
The fortune-teller looked at the dice with a hint of surprise, raising a quizzical eyebrow as if questioning the result, and quickly made some calculations that seemed to be for show. The falgir then wrote down something and pointed to the word love on his cloth. With a strange smile on his face, he showed Nasrosoltan what he had written on a scrap of paper.
It read, You do not believe in fortunes, not even those that poets tell you from the grave. Then he pointed to the word love again, signaling what topic he meant.
Nasrosoltan was startled since he had told no one of the fal-e Hafez he had read at the poet’s tomb in Shiraz. That sonnet had also spoken of love, but Nasrosoltan had quickly dismissed it.
Like the women who were shocked at hearing their fortunes told, Nasrosoltan also wondered, How could this man have known such a thing? This is more than just a mere coincidence!
Once again, he was pulled out of his thoughts when the fortune-teller waved his hand vigorously in front of Nasrosoltan’s eyes, alerting him to the next revelation.
The falgir pointed to the word safar (journey) on the cloth, and with wild movements of his hands, he gestured that there was a long journey in Nasrosoltan’s near future. Then he pointed to the word love again, which Nasrosoltan took as maybe a good omen for his return to St. Petersburg in pursuit of the music he loved.
Suddenly, the man shook his head as if to indicate he saw something unpleasant. He immediately pointed to the word khanevadeh, meaning “family,” and with his hands, he made a tearing gesture, implying a falling apart.
Nasrosoltan laughed at the ridiculousness of this prediction, for he wondered how it could be that he would ever break with his family.
“Never!” he exclaimed, and the fortune-teller displayed a sly smile and directed his attention to a final word on the cloth, which read pride, and then he pointed directly at Nasrosoltan.
The falgir wrote on the paper, as his final pronouncement, It is pride that is the enemy of love. Then he made the tearing gesture with his hands one last time and bowed his head, signaling he was done.
What Nasrosoltan expected to be an entertaining afternoon turned into a not-so-pleasant one, and he became anxious.
He thought, What did the man mean, that pride is the enemy of love?
He reasoned that the falgir was evidently mistaken, and it was hate, not pride, that was the enemy of love.
After the falgir finished reading Nasrosoltan’s fortune, Abbasgholi Khan noticed the sudden change in his cousin’s demeanor and suggested that they take a walk in the woods.
All along the way, Nasrosoltan was quiet and still buried in his thoughts. Assuming it was the fortune-teller’s words that were haunting him, Abbasgholi Khan tried to lift Nasrosoltan’s spirits. “Dear cousin, in your face, I read that you are troubled. If it was something he said, don’t worry. In his readings, the falgir throws out many things to see what sticks, and sometimes he gets lucky. He is just an entertainer, so don’t let him ruin the rest of your day with his ramblings.”
Nasrosoltan hid his true feelings from Abbasgholi Khan, assuring him that it wasn’t the fortune-teller’s words but the uncertainty about his return to Russia that distracted him.
Later that week, the Russian legation planned a ceremony in honor of Liakhov before his return to St. Petersburg. High-ranking officers of the Cossack Brigade, including Salar Moazaz, were expected to attend as a formality, though no one found a reason to celebrate anything about this man.
On the evening of the event, Nasrosoltan, who was not invited, said to his father, “If you permit, I would like to join you in attending the ceremony.”
A surprised Salar Moazaz asked, “Why would you want to come when I don’t even want to attend myself, especially that you have no such obligation?”
Nasrosoltan answered, “Dear Father, after many weeks of internal conflict about what I should do, I have finally decided to swallow my pride and ask Liakhov to write a letter of introduction for me. This is the only way a place can be reserved for me at the conservatory in time for the next session.”
Salar Moazaz was shocked, and he angrily responded, “You say you are swallowing your pride, but it is your pride that is making you want to do such a thing! It is your pride that is deceiving you into thinking that St. Petersburg has a better future for you than staying in your homeland and composing music here. For the hope of this fame and fortune, are you willing to prostrate yourself before this Russian?”
Nasrosoltan quickly tried to console his father and confessed, “Father, I mean no disrespect, but how many national anthems does Persia need? You have already written one, which will last for a long time, and another is not needed.”
This comment seemed to have the desired effect. Salar Moazaz, who was about to erupt, began to listen carefully and visibly became less agitated as his son pleaded his case.
Nasrosoltan continued softly in a respectful tone, “You are also a composer; why can you not understand what I am feeling? I have within me this burning desire to compose, but the environment is not suitable for me here. If I stay any longer, I will end up contributing nothing of significance.”
Salar Moazaz became dejected but felt powerless in the face of his son’s steadfastness and despair. “You are your own man, so I will not stand in your way. But make sure Liakhov does not think I will be indebted to him if he agrees to your request. This is between you and him; I want no part of whatever arrangement you set up for yourself. I will also pray to the Almighty for your sake since it seems it is only God that can help you control your pride!”
As he lingered on this thought, Salar Moazaz then continued with the assurance of a father with many years of experience. “Pride’s nature is to consume. My son, from ancient times, they have said that pride is the chief cause of misery in every family since the world began!”
Nasrosoltan kissed his father’s hand in gratitude for his acquiescence and replied, “Dear Father, you shall see, I will make you proud!” as if he had not heard one word his father or the falgir had cautioned him about this vice.
Chapter 13
An Unusual Request
With his father’s halfhearted blessing, Nasrosoltan was finally able to acquire the needed letter from Liakhov. The Russian even offered to personally deliver it to the conservatory director, Glazunov, since he was departing for St. Petersburg soon. With a sly smile, he told Nasrosoltan, “I will gladly do this as a special favor for your father!”
The Russian knew Salar Moazaz did not like him, and the feeling was mutual, so this was not a gesture of goodwill toward him. Liakhov even took it a step further by offering to deliver the letter himself to provoke Salar Moazaz even more. Even though Nasrosoltan understood Liakhov said it that way, intending to hurt his father, Nasrosoltan said nothing. He didn’t care if Liakhov felt his father was now indebted to him since the colonel was leaving for Russia and would not be returning to Persia. How ironic that the man who had held thousands in the capital city captive as military governor of Tehran was now instrumental in providing independence to one of its citizens.
Nasrosoltan telegraphed Rustam, asking him to inform Glazunov’s office that the letter would soon arrive by personal delivery. He also added the date when he would be in St. Petersburg and requested that, if possible, Rustam find him suitable accommodations.
The day before Nasrosoltan was to leave for Russia, he received a reply telegram from Rustam:
25 August 1912
Dear Friend,
Congratulations! The conservatory is informed of your imminent arrival. Accommodations located. Please bring pistachios. Looking forward to your return.
Respectfully, Rustam
Nasrosoltan found the request for pistachios peculiar, but did as his friend asked, knowing that Rustam had a soft spot for this Persian delicacy as a cocktail nibble.
The next day with bags packed and after the lengthy Persian goodbyes, Nasrosoltan finally departed for St. Petersburg, seven years after leaving for what he had thought would be a short visit home.
Nasrosoltan arrived in St. Petersburg in mid-September with a week to spare before conservatory classes resumed. It was the beginning of the short fall season that would see St. Petersburg getting back to work to prepare for the long winter ahead, after the summer's excesses. As he remembered, this month was the most enjoyable time in the city.
Nasrosoltan was fondly reminded of the glorious autumnal colors in the surrounding parks and gardens, highlighting the city’s unique beauty. He arrived in time for what was known to the locals as babe leto, or “grandmother’s summer,” those rare days that summer’s comforts extended well into the fall.
On the day of his return in the late afternoon, he was met at the train station by Rustam. His friend had hired a private carriage to take Nasrosoltan to his new place of residence.
On the way there, after catching up on the latest news, Nasrosoltan said with a laugh, “By the way, even though you probably wrote the request for pistachios in jest, I did bring some as you requested, so we can enjoy them tonight when we drink to new beginnings!”
Rustam chuckled and said, “I knew you must have thought what an unusual request, with all that was going on in your life. But you should know, I did not ask you to bring the pistachios for me, but for your new landlady.
“She is an elegant woman by the name of Madame Lazar. She is of Armenian descent and was eager to tell me her whole life story in just one short visit. I have a suspicion that she fancies me; it happens to me quite often with tenderhearted women. She owns a handsome building south of Nevsky, near the conservatory, with four apartments, where she lives in one and leases the rest. The price is reasonable for its location and amenities.
“Knowing you, I am sure you will like it. Madame Lazar had only one apartment left and was about to lease it until I met with her and mentioned that it was for my noble Persian friend, a graduate of the conservatory.”
Rustam continued as the carriage made its way through the city, “Talk of Persia led to remembrances of her early childhood, as her family emigrated from Persia many years ago when she was a young child. She mentioned her love of your country’s pistachio nuts as one of the snacks she really misses. Her father would bring her some each day when he would return home from work.
“When I heard this, I looked for an advantage, so I promised that you would bring her some pistachios if she decided to lease the apartment to you, to which she jokingly agreed. So you see, it was not such an unusual request after all!”
Nasrosoltan laughed heartily and felt grateful for his friendship with this capable and resourceful man. He was drawn into the life story of his prospective landlady, and he asked his friend, “Is this charming woman married?”
Rustam replied, “Madame Lazar is a widow now. Her husband was a lieutenant general in the Imperial Russian Army who died tragically, but as a hero, in the Russo-Japanese War a few years ago. Another aspect that you may find interesting is that she is a piano tutor to a couple of high-society families in St. Petersburg.
“I noticed that in a boastful manner, and for special emphasis, she left her most impressive pupil for last, informing me that it was the tsar’s niece. She made a point to mention it was not out of financial need, since with the rents she collects and her husband’s pension, she lives quite comfortably.
“Even though she told me she tutors for the love of music, I believe it is mostly to keep her connection with the royal family in this way. Once I mentioned to her that you are also well versed in the art of playing the piano and that you are a composer, her eyes lit up. So, expect an invite for tea from her occasionally, my friend.”
Nasrosoltan was surprised by this last comment from Rustam since he did not appreciate being obligated to have tea with someone with whom he would rather just have a professional relationship.
The next few months were busy times for Nasrosoltan as he settled in and began his curriculum at the conservatory, studying to the late hours of the evening. But whenever Rustam was not on travel for business, the two would go out on the town.
Despite his initial reluctance, Nasrosoltan had met Madame Lazar for tea at her apartment a few times during the past several months. The first time, to formally introduce himself and deliver the pistachios that were part of the terms of the lease, and the other times, just to pay his respects.
Madame Lazar always enjoyed speaking broken Persian with him, and he would flatteringly tell her she spoke the language beautifully. But she knew he was saying it out of kindness, and after a few sentences, they would continue to converse more comfortably in Russian.
On one visit for tea, she had asked Nasrosoltan to play something for her on the well-tuned piano she
had in her apartment. He had agreed, and he was especially delighted when she praised his performance and told him he could use her piano whenever he needed to.
In late December, when Nasrosoltan visited with her again, he noticed that her right hand was bandaged, and she seemed to be in low spirits. He asked her, “Madame, what happened to your hand?”
Madame Lazar, who was visibly distressed, replied, “Monsieur, what can I say? I am so upset. Two days ago, I was tutoring the spoiled child of one of my clients, and he kept being silly and refused to pay attention to the right notes, so I slapped his hand lightly. He, in turn, bit my index finger with such ferocity that I now have a broken bone, and the wound needed several stitches!”
Madame Lazar continued with tears welling up in her eyes as she worked herself into a frenzy at recalling the event, “The doctor told me it might be six months before I can play the piano like before, and I am absolutely beside myself with despair. In anger, I told his parents I would not be returning to teach such an ill-mannered child!”
As Madame Lazar recalled how terrible she felt that day, she continued indignantly, “They seemed less shocked at what their child had done to me than at my natural reaction.”
Nasrosoltan, feeling her pain, said, “Madame, I am so sorry to hear of this; a lady of your stature and talent should never have been treated with such disrespect! However, it seems it is worth the loss of income to not be treated as such, and I pray that hopefully, all will be better soon.”
Madame Lazar appreciated his kind words of sympathy and replied, “But Monsieur Minbashian, my despair was never for the loss of income, for I am quite comfortable financially.” This, of course, he already knew since Rustam had earlier mentioned it.
She continued, “My worry is not for money but for the weekly piano lessons for Princess Irina. Now that my finger is damaged, I am afraid I will be of no use, and her mother, Grand Duchess Xenia, will be looking to replace me. Once someone replaces me, even when my condition improves to where I can play again, who is to say they would want me back? I have developed a special bond with this sweet girl, and she with me. It would be a pity for me to lose such an opportunity due to this unfortunate mishap!”
A Hundred Sweet Promises Page 10