by Kurban Said
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Then we won’t talk about them either,’ said Nino severely and pressed her lips together. My hand glided over her hair. She lifted her head. The last ray of the setting sun was in her eyes. I bent towards her … her lips opened tenderly and submissively. I kissed her for a very long time, and very improperly. She breathed heavily. Then she tore herself away. We were silent and stared into the twilight. After a while we got up, a little shamefacedly. Hand in hand we left the gardens. ‘I really should wear a veil,’ she said as we went out. ‘Or fulfill your promise.’ She smiled shyly. All was good and simple again. I saw her home.
‘I’m coming to your ball, of course,’ she said.
‘What will you be doing in summer, Nino?’
‘In summer? We are going to Shusha in Karabagh. But you needn’t be conceited. That doesn’t mean that you should come to Shusha too.’
‘All right, I’ll see you in Shusha in summer.’
‘You’re terrible. I don’t know why I like you.’ The door closed after her.
I went home. My uncle’s eunuch, the one with the face of a wise dried-up lizard, grinned at me: ‘Georgian women are beautiful, Khan. But they should not be kissed so openly, in the public gardens, where many people walk past.’ I pinched his pale ear. A eunuch can be as cheeky as he likes. He is a neuter, neither man nor woman. I went to see my father. ‘You gave me three wishes. I know the first one now: I want to spend this summer in Karabagh, alone.’ My father gave me a long look, then he nodded, smiling.
4
Seinal Aga was a simple peasant from the village of Binijady near Baku. He owned a plot of dusty dry desert land, which he farmed until a little, everyday earthquake tore a cleft in his poor farm, and from this cleft rivers of oil gushed forth. From then on Seinal Aga had no need to be crafty or clever. He simply could not run away from his money. He spent it, generously and lavishly, but more and more money accumulated, and was a burden to him till it crushed him. He felt that sooner or later punishment was bound to follow all this good luck, and he lived his life waiting for this punishment like a convict waiting for his execution. He built mosques, hospitals, jails. He made a pilgrimage to Mecca, and founded children’s asylums. But fate takes no bribes. His eighteen-year-old wife, whom he had married at the age of seventy, dishonoured him. He avenged his honour as he should, cruelly and severely, and became a tired man. His family fell apart, one son left him, another brought unspeakable dishonour on him by committing the sin of suicide. Now he lived in the forty rooms of his palace in Baku, grey, sad and stooped. Iljas Beg, the only son left to him, was one of our classmates, and so the ball was at Seinal Aga’s house, in the big hall with the ceiling made of rock crystal.
At eight o’clock I came up the wide marble staircase. Iljas Beg stood there, greeting the guests. He, like myself, was wearing the Tsherkess costume with an elegant slender dagger in his belt. From now on we, too, were entitled to this privilege. ‘Seljam-Alejkum, Iljas Beg!’ I cried, and touched my cap with my right hand. We shook hands the old native way: my right hand pressed his right, and his left my left. ‘Tonight we’ll close the Leprosarium,’ Iljas Beg whispered to me. I nodded gaily.
The Leprosarium was the invention and the secret of our form. The Russian teachers had no idea of what was going on in our town and the surrounding countryside, even if they had been living and working here for years. To them we were just wild natives, who might do anything. So we had told them that there was a Leprosarium near Baku. If any of us wanted to play truant, the form’s spokesman went to the form’s teacher, and, teeth chattering, told him that some of the sick had broken out and were in our town. The police were looking for them. They were supposed to be hiding in the part of the town where the pupils lived, who wanted a bit of time off. The teacher blanched and gave his pupils permission to stay away till the sick were arrested. This might be a week, or even more, it depended. No teacher ever dreamt of enquiring at the Bureau of Sanitation whether there really was a Leprosarium near. But tonight the Leprosarium would be closed.
I went into the already crowded hall. In a corner sat, surrounded by his teachers, our headmaster, wearing a solemn and grandiose look for the occasion. I went to him and bowed respectfully. When it came to dealing with the headmaster I was the spokesman for the Mohammedan pupils, because I had a monkey’s instinct for languages and dialects. While most of us betrayed their non-Russian descent in their first Russian sentence, I could even imitate the separate dialects. Our headmaster came from Petersburg, and therefore one had to speak ‘Petersburgian’ to him, i.e. lisp the consonants and swallow the vowels. This does not sound very beautiful, but very, very high class. The headmaster never dreamt I was pulling his leg, and was pleased about the progressive russification of this far borderland.
‘Good evening, sir,’ I said modestly.
‘Good evening, Shirvanshir, have you recovered from your exam fright?’
‘Oh yes, sir. But since then I have had an awful shock.’
‘What was that?’
‘Well, this thing about the Leprosarium. My cousin Suleiman was there. You know he is a Lieutenant in the Saljan Regiment. It made him quite sick, and I had to nurse him.’
‘But what is the matter with the Leprosarium?’
‘Oh? Sir, you don’t know? Yesterday all the sick broke out, and marched towards the town. Two companies of the Saljan Regiment had to be turned out to deal with them. The sick had occupied two villages. The soldiers surrounded these villages and shot down everybody, sick or not sick. Just now all houses are being set on fire. Isn’t it dreadful, sir, the Leprosarium has ceased to exist. The sick, rotting pieces of flesh falling off them, rattling in their throats, lie outside the town gates, they are being slowly drenched with oil and burnt to death.’ Pearls of sweat appeared on the headmaster’s forehead. He was probably thinking that really it was time to ask the Minister for a transfer to a more civilised place.
‘Terrible country, terrible people,’ he said huskily. ‘But there you see, children, how important it is to have an efficient government and magistrates who can act quickly.’ The form surrounded the headmaster and listened grinning to the lecture about the Blessings of Order. The Leprosarium was finished. Our successors would have to think up some new idea of their own.
‘Does Sir know that Mehmed Haidar’s son is already in his second year in our school?’ I asked innocently.
‘Whaaat?’ Sir’s eyes bulged. Mehmed Haidar was the school’s bane. He was kept for at least three years in each form. At the age of sixteen he had married, but kept on going to school. His son was nine years old, and had entered the same institute. At first the happy father had tried to keep this a secret. But one day a small tubby child came up to him during the big break and said in the Tartar language, looking at him with big innocent eyes: ‘Papa, if you don’t give me five kopeks for chocolate I’ll tell Mummy that you copied your maths homework from somebody else.’ Mehmed Haidar was terribly ashamed, boxed the cheeky brat’s ears, and asked us to tell the headmaster at a suitable moment of his parenthood.
‘Do you mean, that the pupil of the sixth form, Mehmed Haidar, has a son who is already in the second form?’ asked the headmaster.
‘That is so. He asks your forgiveness. He wants his son to be a scholar like himself. It is really quite touching how the urge for Western knowledge is expanding.’ The headmaster blushed. Silently he wondered whether father and son going to the same school was not against any of the school’s rules and regulations. But he could come to no decision. And so daddy and son were allowed to lay siege to the fortress of western wisdom.
A small door opened. A ten-year-old boy pushed the heavy curtains aside, and led in four dark-skinned blind musicians from Persia. Holding hands they went to a corner of the hall and sat down on the carpet. Their strange instruments had been made in Persia centuries ago. A plaintive note sounded. One of the musicians put his hand to his ear—the classical pose of the oriental singer. T
he hall became quiet. Now another beat the tambourine, full of enthusiasm. The singer began in high falsetto:
‘Like a Persian dagger is your form.
Your mouth like a glowing ruby.
If I were the Turkish Sultan I would take you for my wife,
I would string pearls into your plaits,
And kiss your heels.
I would bring you in a golden bowl
My own heart.’
The singer was silent. Then his neighbour’s voice arose loud and brutal. Full of hate he cried:
‘And each night
Like a rat you scuttle
Across the courtyard to the neighbour’s house.’
The tambourine sounded wildly. The one-stringed violin sobbed. The third singer cried passionately:
‘He is a jackal, an unbeliever.
O woe, o misfortune, o dishonour!’
For a moment there was silence. Then after three or four short bars of music the fourth singer started softly, romantically, even tenderly:
‘For three days I sharpened my dagger,
On the fourth I stab my enemy to death.
I cut him into small pieces.
I throw you, my beloved, over the saddle,
I cover my face with the cloth of war
And ride with you into the mountains.’
Next to me stood the headmaster and the Geography teacher. ‘What horrible music,’ said the headmaster softly. ‘Like a Caucasian donkey howling in the night. I wonder what the words mean?’
‘Nothing probably, just like the music.’
I was about to tiptoe away, when I noticed that the heavy damask curtain behind me was moving. I looked round cautiously. An old man with snow-white hair and strange light eyes was standing behind the curtain, listening to the music and crying: His Excellency Seinal Aga, Iljas Beg’s father. His soft hands with the thick blue veins trembled. These hands could hardly write their owner’s name, but they ruled over seventy million rubles. I looked away. He was a simple peasant, this Seinal Aga, but he understood more of the singers’ art than the teachers who had declared us mature. The song was ended. The musicians started a Caucasian dance. I walked about the hall. The pupils stood together in groups. They were drinking wine, even the Mohammedans. I did not drink. Girls, sisters and friends of our classmates, were chattering in the corners. There were many Russian girls, their plaits were yellow, their eyes grey or blue, and their hearts dusted with powder. They only talked to Russians, even to Armenians and Georgians. But if a Mohammedan approached them they were embarrassed, giggled, said a few words and turned away. Somebody opened the piano and began to play a waltz. The headmaster danced with the Governor’s daughter.
At last! Her voice from the staircase. ‘Good evening, Iljas Beg. I am a little late, but it is not my fault.’ I dashed out. Nino was not wearing evening dress nor the uniform of the Lyceum of the Holy Tamar. From her shoulders hung a short velvet waistcoat with gold buttons. Her waist was firmly laced and so slim that I thought I could span it with one hand. A long black velvet skirt reached down to her feet, showing the gilt points of her kid slippers. Perched on her hair was a small round cap and from it two rows of heavy gold coins hung over her forehead. It was the ancient ceremonial robe of a Georgian princess, and hers was the face of a Byzantine Madonna. The Madonna laughed. ‘No, Ali Khan, you must not be angry. It takes hours to lace this skirt. I have squeezed myself into it only in your honour.’
‘The first dance with me!’ cried Iljas Beg.
Nino looked at me, I nodded. I dance badly, and do not even like it. And I can trust Iljas Beg with Nino. He knows how to behave. ‘Shamil’s Prayer!’ called Iljas Beg to the musicians. Immediately a wild melody arose. Iljas Beg jumped into the middle of the hall. He drew his dagger. His feet moved in the fiery rhythm of the Caucasian Mountain Dance. The blade glittered in his hand. Nino danced up to him. Her feet looked like small strange toys. Shamil’s Mystery began. We clapped to the rhythm of the music. Nino was the bride to be abducted. … Iljas put the dagger between his teeth. Like a bird of prey his arms outstretched, he circled round the girl. Nino’s feet flew whirling round the hall, her supple arms depicting all stages of fear, despair and submission. In her left hand she held a handkerchief. Her whole body trembled. Only the coins on her cap lay quietly on her forehead, and that was the correct way—this is the most difficult part of the dance. No one but a Georgian girl can do such fantastically quick turns and not let even one coin on her cap tinkle. Iljas raced after her. Without stopping he chased her round and round. The wide gestures of his arms became more and more dominating, Nino’s defensive movements more and more tender. At last she stopped, like a deer overtaken by the hunter. Closer and closer Iljas Beg circled. Nino’s eyes were soft and humble. Her hands trembled. A wild short howl from the music, and she opened her left hand. The handkerchief fluttered to the floor. And suddenly Iljas Beg’s dagger flew on to the little piece of silk and nailed it to the floor. The symbolic dance was finished.
By the way, did I mention that before the dance I gave Iljas Beg my dagger and took his? It was my blade that pierced Nino’s handkerchief. It is best to be on the safe side, for a wise rule teaches: ‘Before you trust your camel to Allah’s protection, tie it fast on to your fence.’
5
‘When our illustrious forefathers, O Khan, first set foot into this country, where they were to make a great and much feared name for themselves, they cried: “Kara Back!”—“Behold—there lies snow!” But when they came to the mountains and saw the jungle they cried: “Karabagh!”—“Black Garden!” Since then this country has been called Karabagh. Before that it was called Sünik, and before that Agwar. For you must know, Khan, we are a very old and famous country.’ My host, old Mustafa, with whom I had taken rooms in Shusha, fell into a dignified silence. Then he drank a small glass of Karabagh fruit liquor and cut a piece of the strange cheese that is fashioned from innumerable strands and looks like a girl’s plait, then he carried on: ‘The Karaulik, the dark ghosts, live in our mountains and guard enormous treasures, as everybody knows. There are sacred stones in the woods, and holy wells flow there. We have everything. Walk through the town and look around—does anybody work? Hardly anybody! Is anybody sad? Nobody! Is anybody sober? Nobody! You’ll be amazed, sir!’
It really was amazing, what wonderful liars these people were. There is no story they would not invent to glorify their country. Only yesterday a fat Armenian tried to tell me that the Christian Maras Church in Shusha was five thousand years old. ‘Don’t tell such tall stories,’ I told him. ‘The Christian Faith is not yet two thousand years old. They can’t have built a Christian church before Christianity was even thought of.’ The fat man was very hurt and said reproachfully: ‘You are, of course, an educated man. But let an old man tell you: The Christian Faith may be only two thousand years old in other countries. But to us, the people of Karabagh, the Saviour showed the light three thousand years before the others. That’s how it is.’ Five minutes later the same man went on to tell me without batting an eyelid that the French General Murat had been an Armenian from Shusha. He had gone to France as a child to make Karabagh’s name famous there as well. Even when I was just on the way to Shusha the driver of my coach pointed at the little stone bridge we were about to cross and said proudly: ‘This bridge was built by Alexander the Great when he went forth to immortal victories in Persia!’ ‘1897’ was chiselled in big figures on the parapet. I pointed this out to the coachman, but he only waved his hand: ‘Och, sir, the Russians put that in later, because they were jealous of our glory!’
Shusha is a strange town. It stands five thousand metres high up in the mountains, surrounded by woods and rivers. Armenians and Mohammedans live there together in peace. For centuries this had been the bridge between the Caucasian countries, Persia and Turkey. The native nobles—the Armenian Nacharars and Meliks, and the Mohammedan Begs and Agalars—had their houses in the hills and valleys around the town. Often, in rather endearing c
hildlike presumption, their little mud huts were called palaces. These people never tired of sitting on the steps that led up to their doors, smoking their pipes and telling each other how many times the Russian Empire and the Czar himself had been saved by Karabagh generals, and what horrible fate would have overtaken them if their defence had been left to anyone else. It had taken my Kotshi and myself seven hours on the shaking path to drive up to Shusha. Kotshis are armed servants by profession, and brigands by inclination. They have the faces of warriors, are festooned with daggers, swords, pistols and ammunition, and generally immersed in dark brooding silence. Maybe they are meditating on some past heroic banditry and plunder, maybe it is just their way and does not mean a thing. My father had insisted on the Kotshi, either to safeguard me from strangers or strangers from me. But it was all right with me, he was a good man, in some way or other related to the House of Shirvanshir, and dependable as only such oriental servants can be.
It was now five days since I had arrived in Shusha, waiting for Nino and listening to everyone I met telling me all day long that all rich, brave, or in any way outstanding people in the world came from Shusha. I had looked at the civic gardens and counted church steeples and minarets. Obviously Shusha was a very religious town: seventeen churches and ten mosques were more than enough for sixty thousand inhabitants. Then there were innumerable holy places near the town, but the most important ones were of course the famous grave, the chapel and the two trees of St. Sary Beg. I was dragged there by my bragging new friends on my first day. The saint’s grave is an hour’s journey from Shusha. Every year the whole town makes a pilgrimage there, and banquets are held in the Holy Grove. The outstandingly devout make the whole journey on their knees. This is rather uncomfortable, but it heightens considerably the esteem in which the pious pilgrims are held. Two sacred trees grow near the saint’s grave. To touch them is sacrilege. Touch as much as a leaf and you will be paralysed immediately, so immense is the saint’s power—though whether this had ever actually happened, or what other miracles the saint had worked nobody could tell me. But to make up for that I was told in great detail how once, when chased by enemies, he rode up the mountains, to the summit, to where even today Shusha stands. His enemies were quite near. Then his horse took a terrific leap, over the mountains, over the rocks, over the whole town of Shusha. On the spot where the horse landed, the devout can see even today, impressed deep into the stone, the trace of the noble animal’s hooves. So they told me. When I dared to utter a few doubts about the possibility of such a leap they said indignantly: ‘But sir, it was a horse from Karabagh.’
