Ali and Nino

by Kurban Said

  ‘Ali Khan, if Emperor and Kralj have to fight for blood, where do the other monarchs come in?’

  That was a difficult question, and I did not myself know the answer. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘our Czar has the same God as the Serbian Kralj, therefore he helps him. The Kaiser Giljom and the other enemy monarchs are related to the Emperor, I think. The King of England is related to the Czar, and so one thing leads to another.’ The Kotshi was not at all satisfied with this answer. He was sure that the Emperor of Japan had quite a different God from the one our Czar worshipped, and this mysterious civilian, who ruled France, could not possibly be related to any monarch. Apart from that, as far as Kotshi knew, there was no God at all in France. That’s why the country was called a republic. I was not very clear about all this myself. I answered him vaguely, and in the end started questioning him: would he go to war? He looked dreamily at his weapons. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘of course I will go to war.’

  ‘You know that you needn’t? We Mohammedans are excused from active service.’

  ‘I know, but I do want to go.’ The simple fellow became suddenly quite loquacious. ‘War is good. I’ll travel far in the great world. I’ll hear the wind whistle in the west, and see tears in my enemies’ eyes. I’ll have a horse and a gun and ride with my friends through conquered villages. When I come back I’ll have lots of money, and they will all praise me, because I’ll be a hero. If I die it will be a real man’s death. Then everybody will speak highly of me and honour my son or my father. No, war is a wonderful thing, it doesn’t matter who it is against. Once in his life a man must go to war.’ He went on and on. He counted the wounds he meant to inflict on his enemies, the loot he was already seeing before him, his eyes shone with the awakening lust for battle, and his brown face looked like that of an old warrior from the divine book of Shah Nahmeh. I envied him, because he was a simple man, who was sure of what he had to do, while I was looking ahead, thoughtfully and irresolutely. Too long had I been at the Russian Imperial school, and had become infected by the Russian’s introspective ways.

  We arrived at the station. Women, children, old men, farmers from Georgia, nomads from Sakataly besieged the buildings. Impossible to find out where to and wherefore they wanted to go. They did not even seem to know themselves. They were lying on the fields like lumps of mud, or storming the arriving trains, regardless of which way they were going. An old man in a torn sheepskin coat, his eyes full of pus, sat at the door of the waiting room, sobbing. He came from Lenkoranj, on the Persian border. He was convinced that his house was destroyed and his children dead. I told him that Persia was not at war with us. He was inconsolable. ‘No, sir, Iran’s sword has been rusty for a long time. Now they are sharpening it. Nomads will attack us, Shahsevans will destroy our houses, for we live in the country of the unbelievers. The Lion of Iran will devastate our country. Our daughters will become slaves and our sons joy boys.’ His senseless lamentations went on and on. My Kotshi pushed the crowd back, and we managed at last to get on the platform. The engine looked like the mask of a prehistoric monster. It stood black and vicious against the background of the yellow desert. We got into the train, and the conductor, after receiving a generous tip, gave us a compartment all to ourselves. The Kotshi sat on the bench, which was covered with red velvet into which the letters SJD (Sakavkasnaja Jelesnaja Doroga—Transcaucasian Railway) were woven. The train started to move through the desert landscape. Yellow sand, stretching far into the distance, little bald hills, soft and round, weatherbeaten rocks, glowing red. From the sea, many miles away, came a cool breeze. Here and there dusty herbs trailed round low cliffs. Then a caravan came into view: a hundred camels or more, some with one hump, some with two, some big, some small, but all staring anxiously at the train. They moved along with wide flabby steps, their heads nodding in time to the monotonous tinkling of the little bells they wore round their necks. If one of them stumbles, his bell goes wrong, and the rhythm of the caravan is disturbed. All the other animals feel this and become restive until unity is restored, and they move as one again. This is the symbol of the desert: this strange being, bastard of animal and bird, graceful and awkward, attractive and repulsive, born from and made for the hot dreams of the desert.

  And for me this was the bell that went wrong: my first impulse to go to war as soon as possible. Now I had time to think. The caravan was wandering eastwards over the soft sand, lost in a dream. The train was pushing westwards along its iron rails, mindless and mechanical. Why did I not raise my hand to pull the communication cord? This was where I belonged, to the camels, to the men leading them, to the sand! What was it to me, this world behind the mountains? These Europeans with their wars, their cities, their Czars, Kaisers and Kings? Their sorrows, their happiness, their cleanliness and their dirt—we have a different way of being clean or dirty, good or bad, we have a different rhythm and different faces. Let the train rush to the West. My heart and soul belong to the East.

  I opened the window wide and leaned out as far as I could. My eyes followed the caravan, now already far away. I was calm and serene, my mind was made up. There was no enemy in my country. No one threatened Transcaucasia’s steppes. Therefore this war was not my war. It was different for my Kotshi. He did not care whether he fought for the Czar or for the West. He was the bondsman of his own lust for adventure. Like all Asiatics he wants to shed blood and see his enemies weep. I too want to go to war, my whole soul yearns for the freedom of combat, for the smoke of a battlefield in the evening. War—a wonderful word, manly and strong, like the thrust of a lance. But I must wait. For this I feel dimly: whoever may win this war—danger is building up for us, drawing closer, a danger greater than all the Czar’s conquests put together. Therefore enough men must be left in our country, to fight this future enemy, when he invades our town, our country, our continent. An invisible hand is even now gripping the reins of the caravan, trying to force it to new pastures, new ways. And these ways can only be the ways of the West, the ways I do not want to follow.

  This then is why I will stay at home. Only when the invisible one attacks my world—only then will I draw my sword. I leaned back in my seat. It was good to have thought this out to the very end. Other people will probably say I stay at home because I do not want to leave Nino’s dark eyes. Maybe. Maybe these people will even be right. For to me those dark eyes are my native earth, the call of home to the son a stranger tries to lead astray. I will defend the dark eyes of my homeland from the invisible danger.

  I looked at the Kotshi. He was fast asleep, snoring in martial enthusiasm.

  9

  The town stood lazy and listless in the glare of the Transcauca-sian August sun. Its ancient lined face had not changed at all. Many Russians had disappeared, gone to war for Czar and Homeland. The police were searching the homes of the Germans and Austrians. Oil prices rose, and people inside and outside the great wall did well and were happy. Only the professional tea house regulars read the despatches. The war was far away, on another planet. … The names of towns taken or lost in battle sounded foreign and remote. Pictures of generals were on the front pages of all journals, looking friendly and full of confidence, certain of victory. I did not go to Moscow to the Institute, as I did not want to leave home during the war, and my studies would not run away. Many people despised me for this, and because I did not go to war. But when I looked down from the roof of our house on the many-coloured whirl of the old town, I knew that no Czar’s order would ever tear me from the wall round my home.

  My father was surprised and worried: ‘You really do not want to go to war? You, Ali Khan Shirvanshir?’

  ‘No, father, I do not want to go.’

  ‘Most of our ancestors have fallen on the battlefield. It is the natural death of our family.’

  ‘I know, father. I too will die on the battlefield, but not now, and not so far away. …’

  ‘It is better to die than to live in dishonour.’

  ‘I do not live dishonourably. This war does not concern
me.’ My father looked at me suspiciously. Was his son a coward? For the hundredth time he told me our family history: How under Nadir Shah five Shirvanshirs had fought for the Realm of the Silver Lion. Four fell in the campaign against India. One only returned from Delhi with rich loot. He bought estates, built palaces and survived the grim ruler. And when Shah Rukh fought against Hussein Khan this ancestor took the side of the wild Kadjar Prince Aga Mohammed. He and his eight sons followed him through Send, Khorassan and Georgia. Only three survived, and went on serving the great eunuch, even after he became Shah. Their tents stood in Aga Mohammed’s camp in Shusha on the night of his murder. With the blood of nine members the Shirvanshirs had paid for the estates which Feth Ali, Aga Mohammed’s gentle heir, gave them in Shirvan, in Mazendaran, in Giljan and Azerbeidshan. The three brothers became the King of King’s hereditary vassals, and ruled over Shirvan. Then the Russians came. Ibrahim Khan Shirvanshir defended Baku, and his hero’s death at Gandsha gave new honour to our name. Only after the Peace of Turkmenshai the Shirvanshirs separated. The Persian members of the family fought and died under Mohammed Shah and Nasreddin Shah, in the campaigns against the Turkmenians and the Afghans, and the Russian ones bled to death for the Czar in the Crimean War, in battles against the Turks, and in the Japanese war. This is how we earned our many decorations and medals, and the sons of our family pass their exams even if they can’t tell the Gerundium from the Gerundivium.

  ‘Now the country is at war again,’ my father finished, ‘but you, Ali Khan Shirvanshir, are sitting on the carpet of cowardice, hiding behind the Czar’s mild edict. Words are no use, if our family’s history is not in your blood. You should read our ancestors’ heroic deeds not in dead dusty books, but in your heart and your veins.’ Sadly my father fell silent. He despised me, because he did not understand me. Was his son a coward? The country was at war, and his son did not rush into battle, did not thirst for the blood of enemies, did not want to see tears in their eyes. This son must be a degenerate! I was sitting on the carpet, leaning against the soft cushions, and said jokingly: ‘You have given me three wishes. The first one was a summer in Karabagh. Here is the second: I will draw my sword when I want to. I don’t think it will ever be too late. For a long time, peace will be a thing of the past. Our country will need my sword later.’

  ‘All right,’ said my father. After that he did not talk of war any more, but looked at me sideways, searchingly. Maybe his son was not a degenerate after all. I talked to the Mullah of the Mosque Taza-Pir. He understood me immediately. He came to our house in his flowing robes, spreading the fragrance of ambergris, and was closeted with my father for a long time. He told him that according to the Koran this war was not a part of a Muslim’s duty, and quoted many of the Prophet’s adages in support of this. After that I had peace and quiet in my house. But in my house only. Lust for war was spreading amongst the young folks, and not every one had sense enough to hold back. Sometimes I went to see my friends. I passed Zizianashvili’s Gate, turned right into Ashum Alley, crossed the Street of Holy Olga, and strolled towards Seinal Aga’s house.

  Iljas Beg was sitting at the table, bent over military treatises. Next to him crouched Mehmed Haidar, the school’s dunce, his brow furrowed, looking frightened. The war had shaken him. He had immediately left the House of Wisdom, and, like Iljas Beg, had just one desire: to feel the golden officer’s epaulettes on his shoulders. So they were both preparing for the Officer’s Examination. When I came into the room I generally heard Mehmed Haidar’s despairing murmur: ‘The Duty of the Army and the Fleet is to defend Czar and Homeland against the Outer and the Inner Enemy.’ I took the poor chap’s book and examined him: ‘Who, esteemed Mehmed Haidar, is the Outer Enemy?’

  He drew his brows together, thought very hard, and suddenly exploded: ‘The Germans and the Austrians.’

  ‘Quite wrong, my dear chap,’ I rejoiced, and read triumphantly: ‘The term Outer Enemy describes any Military Formation which threatens to overstep our borders with warlike intent.’ Then I turned to Iljas Beg: ‘What is the definition of a shot?’

  He answered like an automaton: ‘The definition of a Shot is the expulsion of the bullet from the muzzle of the barrel with the help of powder.’ This game of questions and answers went on for quite a while. We were all very surprised to see how difficult it was to kill an enemy according to all the rules and regulations. What a bunch of dilettantes we in our country had been in practising this art! Then Mehmed Haidar and Iljas Beg started to enthuse about the delights of their future campaigns. Foreign women, picked up safe and sound on the ruins of destroyed towns played the main part in these daydreams. Then they said that every soldier carried his Field-Marshal’s baton in his knapsack, and looked at me condescendingly. ‘When I am an officer,’ said Mehmed Haidar, ‘you will have to let me precede you on the street, and honour me. Because I defend your lazy bones with my brave blood.’

  ‘When you are an officer the war will be over long ago, and the Germans will have conquered Moscow.’ My two future heroes were not at all disgusted with this prophecy. They did not care who won the war, any more than I did. Between us and the front was a territory covering one sixth of the world. It was plainly impossible for the Germans to conquer all that. Instead of one Christian monarch another Christian monarch would reign over us. That was all there was to it. No, for Iljas Beg it was an adventure, and for Mehmed Haidar the welcome excuse to finish his studies in a dignified manner and dedicate himself to a natural and manly occupation. I was sure both of them would be good front officers. Our people were brave enough. But brave for what? Neither Iljas Beg nor Mehmed Haidar ever asked themselves this question, and all my warnings would have been in vain, for the blood lust of the Orient had awakened in them.

  After they had despised me enough, I left Seinal Aga’s house. Cutting through the tangle of little alleys in the Armenian quarter I came to the Esplanade. The Caspian Sea, salty and lead coloured, was licking the granite stones. A gunboat was lying in the harbour. I sat down and looked at the little native sailing boats, battling valiantly with the waves. In one of them I could easily and comfortably go to the port of Astara in Persia, to a tumble-down, peaceful nest in the Shah’s big green country. There I would find melancholy sighs of love fashioned into beautiful verses by the classical poets, memories of Rustem the Hero’s valiant deeds and the fragrant rose gardens in Teheran’s palaces. A wonderful dreaming country.

  Up and down the Esplanade I paced, gaining a little time, for it still felt strange to go and see Nino in her home. It was against all conceptions of correct behaviour. But as there was a war on, old Kipiani felt he might stretch a point. At last I drew a deep breath, and ran up the stairs of the house where she lived. It had four floors, and on the second floor was a brass plate with the words Prince Kipiani. A servant girl, wearing a white apron, opened the door and courtesied. I gave her my cap, though in the Orient the guest keeps his cap on. But I knew how to behave in European company. The illustrious family were in the drawing room, having tea.

  It was a big room. The furniture was covered in red silk, palms and potted flowers were standing in the corners, and the walls were neither painted nor covered with carpets, but papered. The illustrious family were drinking English tea with milk from big beautifully decorated cups, the English way. There were biscuits and rusks, and as I kissed Nino’s mother’s hand, I smelt biscuits, rusks and lavender water. The Prince shook hands with me, and Nino gave me three fingers, looking sideways into her teacup. I sat down and was given tea. ‘So you have decided not to go to war for the time being, Khan?’ the Prince asked graciously.

  ‘No, your Highness, not yet.’

  The Princess put her cup down. ‘But if I were you I would join some sort of committee helping the war effort. At least you would have some sort of uniform.’

  ‘Maybe I will, Princess. It is a good idea.’

  ‘I will do that too,’ said the Prince. ‘Even if I cannot be spared in my office, I will sacrifice my free
time for the Fatherland.’

  ‘Of course, Prince. But unfortunately I have so little free time, that I am afraid the Fatherland will not get much out of me.’

  The Prince was genuinely astonished: ‘But what do you do?’

  ‘I am busy with the administration of my estates, Prince.’ That did it. I had read this sentence in some English novel or other. If a noble Lord is not doing anything, he is busy with the administration of his estates. I could see that I went up considerably in the esteem of the illustrious parents. We exchanged a few more elegant phrases and then I was graciously permitted to take Nino to the opera that night. Again I kissed the Princess’s hand, bowed from the waist, even pronounced the ‘R’ the Petersburg way, and promised to be back at half past seven.

  Nino saw me to the door, and when I took my cap from the servant she blushed deeply, bent her head and said in her enchanting broken Tartar: ‘I’m terribly glad, that you’re staying here. Really, I’m glad. But tell me, Ali Khan, are you really afraid to go to war? Surely men must love battle. I would even love your wounds.’ I did not blush, but took her hand and pressed it.

  ‘No, I’m not afraid. The time will come when you will nurse my wounds. But until that time you can think me a coward if that makes you happy.’ Nino looked at me without understanding. I went home and cut an old chemical textbook into a thousand pieces. Then I had a cup of real Persian tea and booked a box for the opera.