by Kurban Said
Much blood has flowed through the centuries in the alleys of our town. And this blood makes us strong and brave. Zizianashvili’s Gate rises up opposite our house, and here too noble human blood has been shed, becoming part of my family’s history. That was many years ago, when our country Azerbeidshan still belonged to Persia, and Hassan Kuli Khan ruled over Baku, its capital. Prince Zizianashvili, a Georgian, and a General in the Czar’s army, besieged our town. Hassan Kuli Khan declared he would surrender to the Great White Czar, opened the gate, and let Prince Zizianashvili enter. The Prince rode into the town, accompanied by only a few officers. A banquet was held on the square behind the gate. Pyres were burning, whole oxen roasted. Prince Zizianashvili had had too much to drink, he leaned his tired head on Hassan Kuli Khan’s breast. Then my forefather, Ibrahim Khan Shirvanshir, drew a big crooked dagger and gave it to Lord Hassan Kuli Khan. Hassan Kuli Khan took the dagger and slowly cut Prince Zizianashvili’s throat. Blood spurted on his robe, but he went on cutting, till the Prince’s head was in his hand. The head was put into a sack full of salt, and my forefather took it to Teheran to the King of Kings. But the Czar decided to avenge the murder. He sent an army against Baku. Hassan Kuli Khan locked himself in the palace, prayed and thought of the coming day. When the Czar’s soldiers climbed over the wall he fled through an underground passage to the sea, and from there to Persia. Before he entered the underground passage he wrote on the door a single, but very wise sentence: ‘He who thinks of tomorrow can never be brave’.
On my way home from school I often strolled through the ruined palace. The Hall of Justice with its immense moorish colonnades is empty and desolate. Citizens seeking justice are supposed to go to the Russian judge outside the wall. But hardly anybody goes to the Russian judge, and if he does, wise men despise him, and the children on the street put their tongues out at him. Not because the Russian judges are bad or unjust. On the contrary, they are mild and just, but in a manner that our people dislike. A thief is put in jail. There he sits in his clean cell, is given tea, even with sugar in it. But nobody gets anything out of this, least of all the man he stole from. People shrug their shoulders and do justice in their own way. In the afternoon the plaintiffs come to the mosque where wise old men sit in a circle and pass sentence according to the laws of Sharia, the law of Allah: ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’. Sometimes at night shrouded figures slip through the alleys. A dagger strikes like lightning, a little cry, and justice is done. Blood-feuds are running from house to house. Sometimes a sack is carried through the alleys when the night is darkest. A muffled groaning, a soft splash in the sea, and the sack disappears. The next day a man sits on the floor of his room, his robe torn, his eyes full of tears. He has fulfilled the law of Allah: death to the adulteress. Our old town is full of secrets and mysteries, hidden nooks and little alleys. I love these soft night murmurs, the moon over the flat roofs, and the hot quiet afternoons in the mosque’s courtyard with its atmosphere of silent meditation. God let me be born here, as a Muslim of the Shiite Faith, in the religion of Imam Dshafar. May he be merciful and let me die here, in the same street, in the same house where I was born. Me and Nino, a Christian, who eats with knife and fork, has laughing eyes and wears filmy silk stockings.
3
The school-leaver’s gala uniform had a collar laced with silver. Silver belt buckles and silver buttons shone. The stiff grey material had been ironed and was still warm. Hatless and quiet we stood in the big school hall. The solemn part of the exam began, in which we all implored the God of the Orthodox Church to help us, the forty of us, of whom only two belonged to the State Church.
The Orthodox priest, clad in the heavy gold of the ceremonial vestments, his long hair scented, the big gold cross in his hand, began the prayer. The air was heavy with incense, the teachers and the two State Church followers knelt down. The priest’s words, spoken in the sing-song modulation of the Orthodox Church, sounded hollow in our ears. How often had we heard this, unresponsive and bored, during these eight years: ‘For the Most Devout, Most Mighty, Most Christian Ruler and Czar Nikolaus Alexandrovich God’s Blessing … and for all Mariners and Travellers, for all Learners and Sufferers, and for all Fighters who have lost their lives on the field of Honour for the True Religion, for Czar and Homeland, and for all Orthodox Christians God’s Blessing …’ I stared at the wall, bored. There in a wide golden frame hung the picture of the Most Devout and Most Mighty Ruler and Czar, life-sized, looking like a Byzantine ikon under the big double eagle. The Czar’s face was longish, his hair yellow, he looked straight ahead with light cool eyes. The number of medals on his chest was overwhelming. For eight years I had tried to count them, but always lost count in the wealth of decorations. In former times the Czarina’s picture had hung next to the Czar’s. But it had been removed. The Mohammedans of the country resented her low-cut dress, and had stopped sending their children to school.
While the priest was praying we began to feel solemn. It was after all, a most exciting day. I had started early in the morning to do my utmost to try and pass it in a way suitable to the grand occasion. First I resolved to be nice to everybody in the house. But most of them were still asleep. Then, on the way to school, I gave money to every single beggar I passed—just to be on the safe side. I was so excited I even gave a whole ruble to one of them, instead of five kopeks. When he thanked me profusely I said full of dignity: ‘Do not thank me, but thank Allah, who used my hand to distribute charity.’ Surely I could not fail after quoting such a pious saying.
The prayer came to an end. We formed a queue and proceded to the desk of the examiners. Sitting in a row behind the long desk they looked like a prehistoric monster, composed of black beards, sombre glances and golden gala uniforms. Everything was very solemn and frightening, even though the Russians hate to fail a Mohammedan. For we all have a lot of friends, and our friends are hefty lads who carry daggers and pistols. The teachers know this and are as afraid of the wild bandits who are their pupils as the pupils are afraid of the teachers. Most professors look on a posting to Baku as one of God’s punishments. Instances of teachers’ being assaulted and beaten up in dark alleys are not rare. The culprits are never found, and the teacher is posted to some other place. That is why they look the other way when the pupil Ali Khan Shir vanshir rather cheekily copies the maths solution from his neighbour Metalnikov. Only once while I was doing this the teacher came close to me and hissed desperately: ‘Not so openly, Shirvanshir, we are not alone!’
So the written maths were all right. Happily we strolled along Nikolai Street, already feeling a breath of freedom. The next day’s programme was written Russian. The themes came, as always, in a sealed packet from Tiflis. The headmaster broke the seal and read out solemnly: ‘Turgeniev’s Female Characters as the Embodiment of Russian Womanhood.’ This was easy. As long as I praised Russian women the day was won. Written Physics was more difficult. But where knowledge forsook me the useful art of cribbing helped. So Physics were all right too, and the commission granted a day’s rest to the delinquents. Then came the Oral. And there you were on your own. You had to give complicated answers to simple questions. The first was Religion. Our religious teacher, the Mullah, normally kept quietly in the background, but today he suddenly sat in front, in a long flowing robe, wearing the Prophet’s descendant’s green sash. His heart was mild towards his pupils. He asked me only for the Article of the Creed, and gave me full marks after I had repeated like a good boy the Shiitic Declaration of Faith: ‘There is no God but Allah, Mohammed is his Prophet and Ali Allah’s Vice-Regent.’ This last bit was especially important, as it is the one thing that separates the pious Shiites from the lost brethren of the Sunnite Faith, but even from them Allah had not wholly withdrawn his mercy. Thus we were taught by the Mullah, for he was a man of liberal opinions.
To make up for that the History master was not liberal at all. I drew the paper with the theme, and it was not so good. It read: ‘Madatov’s Victory at Gandsha.’ The tea
cher did not feel so comfortable either. In the battle of Gandsha the Russians treacherously killed the famous Ibrahim Khan Shirvanshir, my forefather, who had once helped Hassan Kuli Khan to cut off Prince Zizianashvili’s head. ‘Shirvanshir, you have the right to ask for another question.’ The teacher’s words were mild. I looked suspiciously at the glass bowl which contained sheets of paper with the questions written on them, for all the world like a lottery. Each pupil had the right to change his lot once. He only lost his chance of the highest mark. But I did not want to tempt providence. At least I knew all about my forefather’s death. And there in the glass were absolutely mystifying questions about the Friedrich Wilhelms in Prussia, or about the causes of the American Civil War. Who could possibly know these things? I shook my head. Then I told, as well and as politely as I could, of the Prince Abbas Mirza of Persia, who set out from Tabriz with an army of forty thousand men to chase the Russians from Azerbeidshan. How the Czar’s Armenian General Madatov met him with five thousand men at Gandsha, and fired guns at the Persians, who had never heard of guns before, how Prince Abbas Mirza fell off his horse and crawled into a ditch, the whole army ran, and Ibrahim Khan Shirvanshir was captured and shot when he tried to flee across the river, and a host of knights with him. ‘The victory was due, not so much to the bravery of the Russian troops, as to the technical superiority of Madatov’s guns. The outcome of the victory was the peace treaty of Turkmentshai, at which the Persians had to agree to pay a tribute, the exaction of which devastated five provinces.’ With this I threw away my ‘passed with honours’. I should have said: ‘The victory was due to the Russian’s great courage, with which they forced the enemy, though eight times their strength, to flee. The result of the victory was the peace treaty of Turkmentshai, on the strength of which it became possible for Persia to make contact with Western culture and the Western markets.’ But I did not mind—my forefather’s honour meant just as much to me as the difference between ‘passed with honours’ and ‘passed’.
That was the end. The headmaster made another speech. Full of dignity and moral solemnity he declared us to have matriculated, and then we ran down the staircase like prisoners set free. The sun was dazzling. Fine yellow desert sand covered the streets. The policeman on the corner, who had watched over us for eight years, congratulated us, and we each gave him five kopeks. Then we exploded into town like a gang of bandits, shouting and screaming. I hastened home and was received like Alexander after his victory over the Persians. The servants looked at me with awe. My father covered me with kisses and gave me three wishes—anything I wanted. My uncle felt that such a wise man ought to be at Teheran, where he was bound to go far.
When the first excitement was over I sneaked to the telephone. I had not spoken to Nino for two weeks. A wise rule demands that a man should keep away from women when he stands at life’s crossroads. Now I lifted the grip of the unwieldy apparatus, turned the bell and shouted into the mouthpiece: ‘3381!’ Nino’s voice replied: ‘Passed, Ali?’
‘Yes, Nino.’
‘Congratulations, Ali!’
‘When and where, Nino?’
‘Five o’clock at the lake in the Governor’s Garden, Ali.’ I could not go on talking. Behind my back lurked the curious ears of my relations, servants and eunuchs. Behind Nino’s—her aristocratic mother. Better to stop. Anyway, a bodiless voice is so strange that one cannot really enjoy it.
I went upstairs into my father’s big room. He sat on the divan, my uncle beside him, they were drinking tea. Servants stood along the wall, staring at me. The exam was not finished yet, not by a long way. For now, when I was about to begin my adult life, father had to instruct son in the wisdom of life, formally and in public. It was touching and a bit old fashioned. ‘My son, now that life begins for you I have to remind you once more of a Muslim’s duties. We are living here in the country of the unbelievers. If we are not to perish we must keep the old customs, and our way of life. Pray often, my son, do not drink alcohol, do not kiss strange women, be good to the poor and the frail, and always be prepared to draw your sword for our faith. If you die on the battlefield, I, the old man, will mourn you, but if you live dishonourably, I, the old man, will be ashamed. Do not forgive your enemies, we are not Christians. Do not think of tomorrow, for that would make you a coward. And never forget the Faith of Mohammed, in the Shiitic interpretation of Iman Dshafar.’ My uncle and the servants seemed to be in a solemn trance. They listened to my father’s words as if they were revelations. Then my father rose, took my hand and said, his voice suddenly forced and shaking: ‘And one thing I beg of you—do not enter politics! Do anything you want, but not politics!’ I could swear that with a very easy conscience. Politics were far from my way of thinking. Nino was no political problem. My father embraced me once more. Now I was really grown up.
At half past four I strolled along Fortress Alley towards the Esplanade, still resplendant in my gala uniform. Then I turned to the right, past the Governor’s palace to the Garden which had been laid out with such tremendous efforts in the desert earth of Baku. It was a strange feeling. The Governor of the town passed me in his carriage, and I did not have to spring to attention with a military salute, as I had had to for the past eight years. I had taken off my cap the silver cockade of Baku High School. This proclaimed me to be one of the graduates. So now I promenaded as a private citizen, and for one wild moment I toyed with the idea of lighting a cigarette, for everybody to see. But my dislike of tobacco was stronger than the temptation of freedom. I gave up the idea of smoking and turned into the park.
It was a big dusty garden with spare sad-looking trees and asphalt paths. On the right was the old fortress wall. In the centre stood the white marble columns of the City Club. Between the trees were innumerable benches. Three flamingoes were standing amongst dusty palm trees, looking fixedly at the red ball of the setting sun. Near the Club was the lake, that is to say, an enormous round and deep reservoir, built of stone slabs. The Town Council’s idea had been that it should be filled with water and have swans swimming about. But that was as far as it went. Water was expensive, and there was not a single swan in the country. The reservoir stared up at the sky eternally, like the empty eyesocket of a dead cyclop.
I sat down on a bench. The sun glared behind the tangled pell-mell of the square grey houses and their flat roofs. The shadows of the trees behind me lengthened. A woman passed by, wearing a blue striped veil and clip-clopping slippers. Over the veil a long curved nose protruded. The nose sniffed at me. I looked away. A strange lassitude began to creep over me. It was good that Nino did not wear the veil and did not have a long curved nose. No, I would not make Nino wear the veil. Or would I? I did not quite remember any more. I saw Nino’s face in the glow of the setting sun. Nino Kipiani—a beautiful Georgian name, respectable parents with European tastes. What did it matter? Nino had a fair skin, big laughing dark Caucasian eyes under long delicate lashes. Only Georgian girls have such sweet and gay eyes. No other girls, European or Asiatic. Delicate half-moon eyebrows, and a Madonna’s profile. I was sad. The comparison made me feel melancholy. There are so many comparisons for a man in the Orient. But these women can only be likened to the Christian Mirjam, symbol of a strange uncomprehensible world.
I looked down on the asphalt path of the Governor’s Garden, covered with dazzling sand from the great deserts. I closed my eyes. Then I heard carefree laughter at my side: ‘Holy St. George! Look at Romeo, falling asleep waiting for his Juliet!’ I jumped up. Nino stood beside me, still wearing the chaste blue uniform of the Holy Tamar. She was very slim, far too slim for the taste of the Orient. But just this fault made me feel tenderly protective. She was seventeen years old, and I had known her since the day she went along Nikolai Street on her first day of school. Nino sat down. Her eyes shone. ‘So you passed after all? I was a bit afraid for you.’
I put my arm around her shoulder.
‘It was quite exciting. But you see, God helps the God-fearing.’
Nino
smiled. ‘In a year’s time you’ll have to play God for me. I can’t do without you sitting under my bench at our exam and whispering the maths answers to me.’
That had been settled many years ago, ever since Nino, twelve years old and bathed in tears, had come running across the road during break and had dragged me into her classroom, where, throughout the whole lesson, I had to sit under her bench and whisper the solutions of the maths problems to her. Since that day I have been a hero in Nino’s eyes.
‘How is your uncle and his harem?’ asked Nino. My face became stern. Strictly speaking the harem’s affairs are kept secret. But before Nino’s harmless curiosity all rules of Eastern decency melted away. My hand lost itself in her dark hair: ‘My uncle’s harem is about to return home. Surprisingly enough Western medicine seems to have helped, though it has not really been proved yet. So far it is my uncle who is expecting, and not aunt Zeinab.’
Nino’s childish brow became furrowed. ‘All that is not really nice. My father and mother are very much against it. The harem is a disgraceful thing.’ She spoke like a schoolgirl reciting her lesson. My lips touched her ear: ‘I will not have a harem, Nino, never.’
‘But I suppose you will make your wife wear a veil!’
‘Maybe, it depends. A veil is useful. It protects from the sun, dust and strangers’ looks.’
Nino blushed. ‘You will always be an Asiatic, Ali. What is wrong with strangers’ looks? A woman wants to please.’
‘Only to please her husband. An open face, a naked back, a bosom half uncovered, transparent stockings on slender legs—all these are promises which a woman must keep. A man who sees as much as that wants to see more. To save the man from such desires, that is why women wear the veil.’
Nino looked at me in astonishment. ‘Do you think seventeen-year-old girls and nineteen-year-old boys talk about such things in Europe?’
