A Hundred Sweet Promises

by Sepehr Haddad

Obviously, after being told the story of her husband’s love for Irina, Hossnieh was not as excited to hear this latest news. She would have instead preferred that his longing for her remain solely a sweet memory, nothing more. Hossnieh doubted the sincerity of Nasrosoltan’s assurance that he no longer had the same feelings for Irina. She sensed that her husband possessed a passion for the Russian princess that had not been tempered by the years.

  For his part, now that Irina was alive, Nasrosoltan wished he could see her just once more. Not for the fantasy that anything would come of it, but only to ask her the one question that had plagued him these past few years: Why had she abandoned him without reason?

  Destiny did not afford Nasrosoltan that opportunity, and so he continued living and loving his life, spending his time teaching and composing music. As much as he tried to create a new masterpiece, he always felt that the piece he wrote for Irina was his best. He yearned for the same degree of inspiration that propelled him to write that work in hopes that he could best it.

  Upon Salar Moazaz’s retirement in 1931, Nasrosoltan succeeded him as director of the conservatory. A few years later, in 1935, Salar Moazaz died, and Nasrosoltan was appointed inspector general of national military music by Reza Shah, the king of the newly formed Pahlavi dynasty. Nasrosoltan was at the pinnacle of success in his career, having achieved a position of high honor and prestige.

  Life had offered much to Nasrosoltan, and like all men, he had his trials and tribulations, but he finally seemed grateful for his many blessings. He began to look forward far into the future, pondering his legacy. Nasrosoltan thought of the many more years he had to live, vowing to leave behind one last work he would be just as proud of as the masterpiece he had written for Irina years ago.

  Chapter 32

  The Anthem

  “I did not come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way. Whoever brought me here will have to take me home”— Rumi

  The new king, Reza Shah, introduced many reforms during his reign that laid the foundation of the modern state. He now insisted the nation be called Iran, meaning “Land of the Aryans,” instead of the historical name of Persia, which dated back thousands of years. He wanted the world to see that Iran was modernizing, and one of the exemplifying features of this development program was the construction of the Trans-Iranian Railway. This railway traversed the entire country from the Caspian Sea, near the Russian border in the north, to the Persian Gulf in the south.

  This plan had its critics, who claimed it would have been more economically viable to build an east-west railway line instead of a north-south one. They believed this line only served the purpose of the British, who had a military presence in the south and wished to transport their troops toward the border with Russia in the north if need be.

  In any event, the construction of this railway line was a matter of pride for the nation, built solely with Iranian labor and Iranian finance through the taxation of sugar and tea. This impressive achievement required building thousands of bridges and hundreds of bored tunnels along approximately 850 miles of railroad line.

  The project was scheduled to be completed by 1939, and in anticipation of this monumental achievement, Reza Shah commissioned Nasrosoltan to compose a special anthem for the inauguration. He also asked Nasrosoltan to conduct the orchestra performing the anthem at the ceremony. The shah wanted the music played while he symbolically secured the last connecting spike between the north and south lines outside the Tehran station.

  This was an exceptional honor for Nasrosoltan, especially for such a historic and momentous occasion for his country. He immediately began to work on this piece with great anticipation, hoping it to be the crowning achievement of his musical career. But to his surprise, as hard as he tried, he could not push past the lack of inspiration, as he suffered a creative block with self-doubts haunting him.

  At first, Nasrosoltan was not worried, considering he had more than ten months to complete the work. However, as fate would have it, construction of the railway line was not only going to be completed under budget, but it was also going to be finished earlier than scheduled.

  Accordingly, the inauguration date was rescheduled to Friday, August 26, 1938, almost six months sooner than initially anticipated. This meant Nasrosoltan did not have the time he expected, and he found it even more challenging to compose under such extreme pressure.

  One evening, while entrapped in deep desperation, as time was getting short, he asked himself, Why not use the melody I created and dedicated to Irina and adopt it as the anthem's foundation? Why should such an incredible piece remain an obscure work that has only been heard once in public at my audition in St. Petersburg?

  As artists often do, Nasrosoltan wanted to share this work with a greater audience for an auspicious occasion as part of his musical legacy. Now that there was a special event in his country's history, he saw this as the perfect opportunity.

  Although it was his love for Irina that had ignited the spark of inspiration Nasrosoltan needed at the time to create such a melody, he now felt justified in taking back the gift he had so lovingly offered her.

  Nasrosoltan was now composing an anthem, a hymn of praise and loyalty, borrowing from what he had written for Irina. In contrast, she had displayed an absence of such fidelity with her abrupt abandonment of their love.

  Cruel fate had determined Nasrosoltan would not perform in celebration of his hoped-for union with Irina, where a princess from the north and a composer from the south were to be joined in matrimony. Instead, as destiny had decreed, his most exceptional work would be performed in honor of a different north-south union.

  With his inner critic now silenced and the creative block removed, he worked tirelessly for the remaining days. Several weeks before the inauguration, Nasrosoltan completed his composition, and he titled it “Sorood Eftetahe Rah-Ahan” or the “Anthem of the Inauguration of the Railways.” He could not wait until this historic day, and instead of fearing its arrival, he now welcomed it with open arms to proudly display his brilliant work.

  Inauguration day finally arrived on August 26, a day Nasrosoltan had eagerly anticipated. How he wished his father were still alive and could have witnessed this splendid occasion.

  As Nasrosoltan put on his military uniform and medals, he also thought of a way to honor the memory of Salar Moazaz. In remembrance of him, he decided to wear his father’s Medal of Honor on his chest alongside his own.

  Hossnieh had gone ahead with the children to reserve their place in the stands for the ceremony, and so Nasrosoltan was home with his mother, Khata Khanoom. She was now old and bedridden, being attended to by an aged Haji Murad. To locate his father’s medal, he went to his mother’s room and asked her where it could be. She directed him to a chest of drawers in Salar Moazaz’s private study containing his personal effects, which no one had paid much attention to in the ensuing years after his death.

  Nasrosoltan began to acquaint himself with the contents of the three long drawers, which were filled with various items of clothing and other memorabilia. Perusing each article evoked a feeling of nostalgia in Nasrosoltan. After a bit of searching, he found his father’s medal that the Qajar Shah had awarded to him when he had been given the title of Salar Moazaz.

  Nasrosoltan grabbed it, and after blowing the dust from it, he stared at the medal for a few moments in the palm of his hand. He recalled the greatness of this man who would forever be remembered as a national hero in Persia, and especially in his family’s heart. He then proudly pinned the medal to his chest in fond memory of his father on this historic day.

  As he was closing the drawer, he noticed at its edge, almost stuck to the wood, several faded envelopes. There was a corner of one of the letters exposed to reveal most of its return address. As Nasrosoltan moved in for a closer inspection, to his surprise, it was his own handwriting. He pulled the drawer out all the way and snatched the letters, and upon seeing each, he was delivered a shocking jolt. He fell back into a chair and,
in utter disbelief and absolute confusion, realized these were letters he had written to Irina that, for some reason, had never been mailed.

  Nasrosoltan jumped up from the chair and rushed to the door, frantically calling for Haji Murad. The man hurried into the room, and Nasrosoltan heatedly asked him if he knew anything about these undelivered letters since it was he who would usually mail them. A nervous Haji Murad stole a quick glance at the letters Nasrosoltan waved in his hand and hung his head in shame, not saying a word.

  Nasrosoltan demanded more forcefully, “Well, speak up. Why were these never sent?”

  Holding a downward gaze and in a posture of embarrassment, Haji Murad replied in a barely audible voice, “Agha farmoodand.” (“Your father ordered so.”)

  Nasrosoltan, now bristling with anger, continued questioning, “But why? Do you know why he ordered this?”

  Haji Murad, attempting to defend himself, replied, “Forgive me, sir, I do not know why. All I know is that he asked that any letter you wanted me to put in the post for Russia, I should deliver to him, and any letter that came from Russia, I should also bring it to him. I swear to God Almighty, that is all I know, nothing else!”

  At that moment, it became crystal clear to Nasrosoltan that his father, to control the situation, had decided to block all communication between him and Irina. He did not know of Khata Khanoom’s astute pronouncement to her husband that it was not distance but silence that could destroy a relationship, and Salar Moazaz had acted accordingly.

  The only letter his father had let pass through the gates of this nefarious scheme was the one he had opened and read from Madame Lazar, containing the news of Irina’s marriage to another. This effort of the father to dissuade his son from continuing his relationship with Irina had worked to perfection. His father’s betrayal was a blow that even the strongest of men would find hard to recover from.

  As he collapsed into his chair, Nasrosoltan dismissed Haji Murad, not wanting to speak another word for fear of saying something he may later regret. He could not believe the man he had planned to honor today, during the highest point of his own artistic and military career, his own father, had broken his trust in this manner.

  And then he felt as if his world was crashing down upon him. Nasrosoltan suddenly realized Irina must have mistakenly believed he had betrayed her since she had never heard from him. He agonized, thinking that maybe she had written to him but that his father had also intercepted those letters. Considering this, Nasrosoltan quickly sprang out of his chair and clawed through the drawers where he had found his own letters, hoping to find a trace of Irina, but to his dismay, he found none.

  He had blamed Irina all these years for his misery, not knowing why she had dismissed the love she so boldly professed for him in front of the emperor. The mystery Nasrosoltan supposed would never be unraveled until the day he died had been unveiled sooner than he thought, and with it came unfathomable pain and regret.

  He felt like beating his head against the wall in agony and wailing over what destiny had offered. Nasrosoltan desperately wished he could tell Irina that he had not betrayed her. That he had been faithful to their love and had kept his vows to her until news of her own marriage. He was now hoarding all the guilt as he once again fell back onto the chair.

  Nasrosoltan wondered what if just one of his many letters had reached its destination. He felt numb and found it difficult to breathe. How many shocks can a man withstand on the same day, learning that his father had betrayed him, and that Irina had not? Worst of all, she almost certainly thought he had been the unfaithful one.

  He tried to get out of his chair but immediately fell to his hands and knees and spent a few moments trying to catch his breath. With his head spinning, Nasrosoltan heard Haji Murad announcing the carriage's arrival to take him to the inauguration ceremony.

  Nasrosoltan staggered to his feet, trying to regain his composure. With the little strength he could summon, he angrily tore off his father’s medal from his chest and threw it to the ground. He was emotionally bereft.

  Nasrosoltan wished the day he had so impatiently waited for had never arrived. Today was no longer a day he wanted to celebrate, especially now that he had torn apart the work he had so lovingly dedicated to Irina, to give birth to the anthem he was expected to conduct in a few short hours.

  He prayed to the heavens that he would somehow be saved from performing it, for the melody carried the essence of Irina. Nasrosoltan did not have the emotional fortitude to give of himself when he felt so drained and overcome with grief and despair, confronted with memories of her.

  Nasrosoltan slowly carried himself outside to the waiting carriage that his brother-in-law, Allahyar Saleh, had hired to go to the ceremony. As he put his foot on the step to enter the carriage, he heard an unintelligible mumbling in the distance, as if someone was calling out to him. He turned and noticed two men coming toward him. One of them had an awkward smile and flailed his hands wildly, while the other approached Nasrosoltan as if to ask him something. When he looked closer, he suddenly recognized the mumbling man. He was the falgir, the same—but now older—fortune-teller he had met once before at his family’s summer home many years ago, the man of the cloth.

  All the while, the falgir kept touching his heart, pointing to Nasrosoltan, and then making a sign in the air with his hand, drawing an invisible line from one point to another.

  An awestruck Nasrosoltan asked the falgir’s companion, “Can you tell me what he is trying to say?”

  The man replied, “He asks if you remember that he foretold of a journey you would take, one that involved love? This is the reason he is pointing to his heart!”

  The falgir nodded in agreement with what his friend said and then started shaking his head and finger vigorously. It seemed he was trying to say no, but then pointed to himself and nodded his head as if to say yes, which further confused Nasrosoltan.

  The falgir’s companion then relayed, “He is trying to tell you that you did not believe him then; he wants to know, do you believe him now?”

  Nasrosoltan suddenly recalled that day in 1912, several weeks before leaving for St. Petersburg. The fortune-teller had pointed to the word love on his cloth, then showed Nasrosoltan what he had written on a scrap of paper: You do not believe in fortunes, not even those that poets tell you from the grave, speaking of Hafez and his foresighted sonnet.

  The memories this man rekindled delivered another harsh blow to an already crushed Nasrosoltan. He then remembered how the fortune-teller had shown him the word khanevadeh, meaning “family,” and with his hands had made a tearing gesture, implying a falling apart. At the time, Nasrosoltan, in the height of arrogance, had laughed at what he considered the ridiculousness of this man’s prediction.

  Nasrosoltan had thought back then, How can it be that I would ever break with my family?

  And now, years later, as if fate was mocking him, he had received the answer. Just a few minutes earlier this day, he had ripped off his father’s medal in reaction to Salar Moazaz’s apparent deception.

  Nasrosoltan, now pierced with many griefs, was baffled and overwhelmed. He did not know what to think, for he had lost all faith. There was no sign of arrogance in his demeanor any longer, but this was not because he had willed it so; it was a result of the toll the day’s events had taken on him.

  The heaviness hung in the air, and a dispirited Nasrosoltan took some money from his pocket and gave it to the man who interpreted the fortune-teller’s gesticulations. Then, with a wave of his hand, he sent the men on their way and slowly pulled himself into the carriage.

  As the carriage moved on, Nasrosoltan looked out the window and saw the falgir, with a fixed stare directed at him. The man still pointed to his heart and then pointed toward Nasrosoltan while shaking his head. By not saying even one word this day, the fortune-teller had spoken volumes.

  Allahyar, who witnessed all this in awe, asked Nasrosoltan the meaning of what had just happened. He was curious to know about th
is strange mumbling man and his connection to him. A drained Nasrosoltan slipped down into his seat, sweating profusely, merely whispering, “My soul melts away with sorrow,” followed by a sigh of exhaustion.

  From his disposition, as he sat slouching in the carriage, Nasrosoltan signaled that he was spent and in no mood to converse, so the two men shared a silent carriage ride to the inauguration hall.

  Upon arrival at their destination, there was great fanfare. Many people had crowded the area to witness this historic event. Military personnel were arrayed in their elegant uniforms, and the orchestra was set, anticipating the arrival of Nasrosoltan. Reza Shah had not yet arrived, but many of the high government officials, including the minister of transportation, were present.

  The driver opened the carriage door for the two passengers to disembark, and Nasrosoltan was the first to set foot outside. As he took the last step onto the pavement, he seemed to have tripped, and losing his balance, he stumbled head-first to the ground.

  The driver and Allahyar immediately attended to him, hoping that he was not injured, as the curious crowd now noticed what had happened and began surrounding them. As they tried to lift him up, Nasrosoltan grimaced and put a hand on the left side of his chest, indicating he was in excruciating pain. They hurriedly tried to disperse the ever-growing crowd and placed him back in the carriage, rushing him to seek medical help.

  Nasrosoltan still had a pulse but was one breath away from eternity as the carriage driver maneuvered the busy streets of downtown Tehran, trying his best to get him to the hospital.

  Allahyar kept yelling at the driver to go faster, worried that they were running out of time. The hospital was now within reach, only a few blocks away. As they approached the front entrance to the hospital, Nasrosoltan drew his last breath and let out a final sigh. Allahyar tried desperately to revive him, first lifting his head to see if he was conscious and then frantically shaking Nasrosoltan, searching for any sign of life. Finding none, Allahyar cried out in despair as he sat with Nasrosoltan’s lifeless body on his lap.