Ali and Nino

by Kurban Said

  ‘Oh, a very nice and agreeable one, I’m sure,’ I said evasively. She looked at me suspiciously and for a while she was silent, thinking. Then she said sadly: ‘And anyway, am I not too old for you? I’ll soon be seventeen, and your future wife should be now about twelve.’ I put her mind at rest. No, she was certainly not too old. Too clever, perhaps, for is it really a good thing to be too clever? Sometimes it seems to me that all we Orientals become mature, old and clever far too soon. And yet, sometimes it seems to me that we are all just stupid and simple. I did not really know what to think: I was bewildered by the trees, by Nino, by the far-away glow of the fires, and most of all by myself, for maybe I, too, had sipped too much of the Kachetian wine, and roved like a desert bandit in the quiet garden of love. Not that Nino seemed to feel like a desert bandit’s victim. She looked calm and serene. All traces of tears, laughter and enchanted longing had disappeared. It took me much longer to appear normal again.

  We came back to the well of Pechapür, but no one seemed to have noticed our absence. I filled my glass with water and drank greedily—my lips were burning. When I put the glass down I met Melik Nachararyan’s eye, who stared at me understandingly: friendly and a little patronising.

  7

  I was lying on the divan on the terrace, dreaming of love. My love was so very different from that of my father, my uncles and my grandfathers, so different from the way it should have been. Instead of meeting Nino at the well, when she was filling her pitcher, I met her on Nicolai Street, on her way to school. It is at the well the Oriental’s love begins, at the small murmuring village well or at the big singing fountains in the towns rich with water. Every evening the girls go to the well, carrying big clay pitchers on their shoulders. Near the well the young men sit in a circle, chattering of war and robberies, not taking any notice of the girls. Slowly the girls fill the pitchers, slowly they walk back. The pitchers are heavy, filled to the brim. The girls might stumble, so they push back their veils and look down chastely. Every evening the girls go to the well, every evening the young men sit at one end of the square, and that is how love begins in the Orient. Quite, quite by chance one of the girls raises her eyes and glances at the young men. They do not pay any attention. But when the girl comes back again one of them turns and looks up to the sky. Sometimes his glance and the girl’s cross, sometimes they do not. Then somebody else sits in his place the next day. But when two people’s glances have crossed a few times at the well everyone knows love has begun. The rest follows naturally: the lovelorn boy wanders about the countryside around the town singing ballads, his relatives negotiate the bride-price, and wise men calculate how many warriors the young couple will raise. Everything is simple, every step decided and laid down beforehand.

  But what about me? Where is my well? Where is the veil on Nino’s face? It is strange: you cannot see the woman behind the veil, but you know her: her habits, her thoughts, her desires. The veil hides her eyes, her nose, her mouth. But not her soul. There are no problems in the Oriental woman’s soul. Unveiled women are quite different. You see their eyes, their noses, their mouths, even more, much more. But you will never know what is hiding behind those eyes, even when you think you know her well. I love Nino, yet she perplexes me. She is pleased when other men look at her in the street. A good Oriental girl would be disgusted. She kisses me. I may touch her bosom and caress her thighs, yet we are not even engaged. When she reads love stories her eyes become soft and dreaming, as if she is longing for something. But when I ask her what she is longing for she just shakes her head, astonished—she does not know. When she is with me I don’t wish for anything more. I think she has been to Russia too often. Her father used to take her to Petersburg, and everybody knows that all Russian women are mad. Their eyes are too full of yearning, they often betray their husbands, and yet they seldom have more than two children. That is how God punishes them! But I love Nino. Her eyes, her voice, her way of talking and thinking. I will marry her, and she will become a good wife like all Georgian women, even if they are gay, carefree or dreamy. Inshallah.

  I turned over. All this thinking made me tired: it was much more agreeable to close my eyes and dream of the future, and that meant Nino. For the future begins on the day Nino becomes my wife. It will be an exciting day. I will not be allowed to see her. Bride and bridegroom must not see each other on their wedding day, nothing could be more fatal for the wedding night. My friends, armed and on horseback, fetch Nino. She is heavily veiled. On this day she must wear the Oriental robe. The Mullah asks the questions, my friends stand in the four corners of the hall, whispering incantations against impotence. Thus custom decrees, for every man has enemies, who on the wedding day draw their daggers out of the sheath, turn their faces towards the west and whisper: ‘Anisani, banisani, mamawerli, kaniani—he can’t do it, he can’t do it, he can’t do it.’ But, thank God, I have good friends, and Iljas Beg knows all the protecting incantations by heart. Immediately after the wedding we separate. Nino goes to her friends and I to mine. We celebrate goodbye to our youth. And then? Then?

  For a moment I open my eyes and see the wooden terrace and the trees in the garden, but then I close them again, so I can see better what comes then. For the wedding day is the most important, perhaps the only important day in one’s life. But it is also a very difficult day. It is not easy to get to the bridal chamber on the wedding night. At each door of the long passage masked figures are standing, and the bridegroom is allowed to pass only after he has put coins into their hands. In the bridal chamber itself well-meaning friends have hidden a cock, a cat or other unexpected things. I must have a good look round. Sometimes an old hag is giggling in the bed, and she also will want money before she leaves. At last I am alone. The door opens and Nino comes in. Now the most difficult part of the wedding begins. Nino smiles and looks at me expectantly. Her body is pressed into a kid leather corset. It is held together by cords, fastened in front with highly complicated knots. Expert hands have laced them together to baffle the bridegroom. And I must undo them all by myself. Nino is not allowed to help me. But maybe she will. For these knots are really terribly complicated, and it would bring shame and dishonour on me if I just cut them. A man must demonstrate self-control, for on the next morning his friends will come to see the untied knots. Woe to the wretch who cannot show them. The whole town will laugh at him. During the wedding night the house is like an ant-heap. Friends, friends’ relatives, and friends of the friends’ relatives stand about in the passages, on the roof, even on the street, waiting and getting impatient if it takes too long. They knock at the door, miaou and bark, until at last the eagerly awaited pistol shot goes off. Then they immediately start shooting into the air, full of enthusiasm. They run out of the house and form themselves into a sort of Guard of Honour, and they will not let Nino and me out of the house until they consider it right. Yes, it will be a wonderful wedding, in the grand old way, as our fathers’ customs decreed.

  I must have fallen asleep on the divan. For when I opened my eyes my Kotshi was squatting on the floor, cleaning his nails with his long dagger. I had not heard him coming. ‘What’s the news, little brother?’ I asked lazily and yawned.

  ‘Nothing special, little master,’ he answered in a bored voice. ‘The neighbour’s women have quarrelled, a donkey has bolted, it ran into the well, and there it still is.’ The Kotshi put his dagger back into the sheath and continued indifferently: ‘The Czar has deigned to declare war on several European monarchs.’

  ‘What? What war?’ I jumped up and looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘Oh, just an ordinary war.’

  ‘What do you mean? Against whom?’

  ‘Several European monarchs. I couldn’t remember their names. There were too many of them. But Mustafa wrote them down.’

  ‘Call him at once.’

  The Kotshi shook his head disapprovingly—such unseemly curiosity!—then he disappeared through the door and came back, accompanied by my host. Mustafa grinned, because he felt
superior, and he was radiant, because he knew all. Of course the Czar had declared war. The whole town knew it. Only I was asleep on the terrace. Mind you, exactly why the Czar had declared war nobody really knew. He had just decided in his wisdom to do so.

  ‘But against whom has the Czar declared war?’ I cried, exasperated. Mustafa dived into his pocket and brought out a bit of paper on which he had scribbled his notes. He cleared his throat and read out, full of dignity, but with difficulty: ‘On the German Kaiser and the Austrian Emperor, the King of Bavaria, the King of Prussia, the King of Saxony, the King of Württemberg, the King of Hungary and many other Lords and Princes.’

  ‘As I told you, little master, I couldn’t remember all that.’ said the Kotshi humbly. Mustafa folded his bit of paper and said: ‘On the other hand, His Imperial Majesty the Khalif and Sultan of the High Ottoman Empire, Mehmed Rashid, as well as His Imperial Majesty the King of Kings of Iran, Sultan Achmed Shah, have declared that until further notice they will not participate in this war. It is therefore a war of the unbelievers amongst themselves and has not much to do with us. The Mullah in the Mehmed-Ali Mosque thinks the Germans will win.’ Mustafa could not finish. From the town, drowning every other sound, the bells of the seventeen churches began to ring. I ran out. The glowing August sky hung over the town, threatening and motionless. Far away the blue mountains looked on like indifferent witnesses. The sound of the bells broke against their grey rocks. The streets were full of people. Hot excited faces looked up to the cupolas of the churches and mosques. Dust was whirling in the air. People’s voices were hoarse. Mute and weatherbeaten the walls of the many churches looked at us like the stony eyes of eternity. Their towers rose above us like silent threats. The bells stopped ringing. A fat Mullah, in a flowing, many-coloured robe, climbed up the minaret of the mosque near us. He brought his hands to his mouth like a funnel and called out, proud and melancholy: ‘Rise for prayer, rise for prayer, prayer is better than sleep!’ I ran into the stable. The Kotshi saddled my horse. I mounted and galloped through the streets, the crowds making way for me with frightened glances. The horse’s ears stood up in happy expectation as I rode from the town. Before me lay the wide ribbon of the serpentine path. I galloped past the houses of the Karabagh nobility, and the simple farm-lords waved to me: ‘Are you rushing into battle, Ali Khan?’ I looked down into the valley. There was the little flat-roofed house, in the middle of the garden. When I saw this house I forgot all rules of horsemanship and rode down the steep hill in a wild gallop. The house became bigger, and behind it the mountains disappeared, the sky, the town, the Czar and all the world. I turned the corner into the garden. A servant came from the house and looked at me with dead eyes: ‘The noble family has left the house three hours ago.’ My hand went mechanically to the dagger. The servant stepped aside. ‘Princess Nino left a letter for His Highness Ali Khan.’ His hand went to his breast pocket. I dismounted and sat down on the steps of the terrace. The envelope was soft, white and scented. Impatiently I opened it. She wrote in big childish letters:

  ‘Dearest Ali Khan! Suddenly it’s war, and we have to go back to Baku. No time to send you a message. Don’t be angry. I cry and I love you. This was a short summer. Follow us quickly. I wait for you and I long for you. I will think only of you on our journey. Father thinks the war will soon be over, and our side will win. I feel quite stupid in all this confusion. Please go to the market in Shusha and buy me a carpet. I did not have the time. I want one with a pattern of little horses’ heads in many colours. I kiss you. It will be terribly hot in Baku!’

  I folded the letter. Everything was all right, really. Just that I, Ali Khan Shirvanshir, had jumped into the saddle like a silly boy, instead of doing the right and proper thing: congratulating the town’s Governor on the war, or at least praying in one of the mosques for the victory of the Czar’s armies. I sat on the stairs that led to the terrace and stared ahead unseeingly. I was a fool! What else could Nino have done except go home with her father and mother, and ask me to follow as soon as possible. To be sure: when there is war in the country the beloved should come to the lover, not write scented letters. But there was no war in our country, the war was in Russia, and that did not really matter to Nino and me. Even so, I was mad with rage—with the war, with old Kipiani, who was in such a hurry to get home, with the Lyceum of the Holy Tamar, where they did not teach girls how to behave, and most of all with Nino, who just went away, while I, forgetting duty and dignity, could not hurry to her quickly enough. I read and re-read her letter. Suddenly I drew my dagger, I raised my hand—a short flash, and with a sobbing sound the blade flew into the bark of the tree in front of me. The servant took the dagger from the tree, looked at it with the eyes of a connoisseur and gave it back: ‘Genuine Kubatshine steel, and your hand is strong,’ he said diffidently.

  I got on my horse. Slowly I rode home. Far away the town’s cupolas rose up. I was not angry any more. I had left my anger in the tree’s bark. Nino was quite right. She was a good daughter and would become a good wife. I was ashamed and rode on, my head bent. The street was dusty. The red sun was sinking in the West. Suddenly I heard the neighing of a horse. I raised my head and stopped, petrified. For a minute I forgot Nino and the whole world. Before me stood a horse with a small, narrow head, haughty eyes, a slender rump and the legs of a ballerina. His skin glistened red-golden on the slanting rays of the sun. An old man with a drooping moustache and a crooked nose was in the saddle: Count Melikov, the lord of a manor nearby. What was it they had told of the famous horses of St. Sary Beg when I first came to Shusha? ‘It is red-golden, and there are only twelve of them in the whole of Karabagh. They are guarded like the ladies of the Sultan’s harem.’ Now the red-golden miracle stood before my eyes.

  ‘Where are you going, Count?’

  ‘To the war, my son.’

  ‘What a horse, Count!’

  ‘Yes, you are surprised, aren’t you? Only a very few men have seen the red-golden …’ The Count’s eyes became soft. ‘His heart weighs exactly six pounds. When you pour water over his body it glows like a golden ring. He had never seen the sunlight. When I took him out today, and the rays of the sun shone into his eyes, they sparkled like a well just broken from the rocks. So must the eyes of the man who invented fire have shone when he saw the first flame. He is a descendant of Sary Beg’s horse. I have never shown him to any one. Only when the Czar calls to war does Count Melikov mount the red-golden miracle.’ Proudly he saluted and rode on, his sabre clinking softly. War had come to the country indeed.

  It was dark when I came home. The whole town was wild with war lust. Native noblemen ran about noisily drunk, firing their guns into the air. ‘Blood will flow!’ they cried. ‘Blood will flow! O Karabagh, thy name will be great!’

  A telegram was waiting for me. ‘Come home immediately. Father.’ ‘Pack our things,’ I told the Kotshi, ‘we leave tomorrow.’ I went out into the street and watched the tumult. I was worried, but I did not know why. I looked up to the stars and thought long and deeply.

  8

  ‘Tell me, Ali Khan, who are our friends?’ said my Kotshi. We were going down the steep serpentine from Shusha. The simple country lad never tired of asking the strangest questions about everything that had to do with war and politics. In our country the normal person has only three topics of conversation: religion, politics and business. A war touches on all three of them. You can talk of war when, where and as often as you like, and you will never exhaust the theme.

  ‘Our friends, Kotshi, are the Emperor of Japan, the Emperor of India, the King of England, the King of Serbia, the King of the Belgians and the President of the French Republic.’

  The Kotshi pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘But the President of the French Republic is a civilian, how can he go to battle and wage war?’

  ‘Maybe he’ll send a general.’

  ‘One must fight one’s own war, not leave it to others, or it just won’t be any good.’ He looked worriedly at our coachman’s b
ack and then spoke like a craftsman: ‘The Czar is a small and thin man. But Kaiser Giljom is hefty and strong. He will overcome the Czar even in the first battle.’ The good fellow was convinced that to start a war the two enemy monarchs ride against each other on horseback. It was useless to try and tell him otherwise. ‘When Giljom has struck the Czar down the Czarewitch has to go into battle. But he is young and sick. And Giljom has six strong healthy sons.’

  I tried to reassure him. ‘Giljom can only fight with his right hand, his left is lame.’

  ‘Och, he only needs his left to hold his horse’s bridle. The right hand is for fighting.’ Deep thought made deep creases appear on his forehead. He asked suddenly: ‘Is it true, that Emperor Franz Josef is a hundred years old?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure. But he is a very old man.’

  ‘Terrible,’ said the Kotshi, ‘that such an old man must mount his horse and draw his sword.’

  ‘He hasn’t got to.’

  ‘Of course he has. There is blood between him and the Serbian Kralj. They are now blood-enemies, and the Emperor must revenge the blood of his crown prince. If he were a farmer from our village he might be able to pay the blood price, about a hundred cows and a house. But an Emperor cannot forgive bloodshed. If he did then everybody would do it, and there would not be any blood-feuds any more, and the country would be ruined.’ The Kotshi was right. The blood-feud is the most important basis of state order and good conduct, no matter what the Europeans say. To be sure: it is good to forgive the shedding of blood if old and wise men beg for it—beg for it from their hearts. Then a high price may be asked, and forgiveness attained. But the principle of blood-feuds must be maintained. Otherwise, how would it all end? Humanity is divided into families, not into nations. And the families hold between them a certain balance, God-given, and founded on the virility of the men. If this balance is disturbed by a murderous force, then the family which has offended against God’s will has to lose a member too. Thus the balance is restored. Of course the execution of a blood-feud can sometimes be a bit awkward, shots missed, or more people killed than necessary. Then the blood-feud would go on and on. But the principle is good and clear. My Kotshi understood this well, and nodded satisfied: yes, the hundred-year-old Emperor who mounted his steed to avenge the blood of his son was a good and just man.