by Kurban Said
‘I know, Ali Khan, you want to get married.’
I jumped up, amazed. I had wanted to talk about the founding of a Mohammedan-Shiitic Boy Scout Organisation. But already he took upon himself the office and knowledge of an ecclesiastical minister.
‘How do you know that I want to get married, and what’s it got to do with you?’
‘I see it in your eyes, and it’s got to do with me because I am your friend. You want to marry Nino, who does not like me, and who is a Christian.’
‘That is so. Well, what do you say?’
Seyd gave me a wise, searching look. ‘I say yes, Ali Khan. A man must marry, preferably the woman he likes. She need not like him in return. A wise man does not court a woman. The woman is just the acre, on which the man sows. Must the field love the farmer? Enough that the farmer loves the field. Marry, but never forget: the woman is just an acre.’
‘So you believe that a woman has neither soul nor intelligence?’
He looked at me pityingly: ‘How can you ask, Ali Khan? Of course she hasn’t. Why should a woman have either? It is enough for her to be chaste and have many children. The Law says: the evidence of one man is more than the evidence of three women. Never forget that, Ali Khan.’ I had been quite prepared to hear the pious Seyd Mustafa curse me for wanting to marry a Christian, who did not like him, so I was really touched by his answer. It proved again that he was honest and wise. I said mildly: ‘So you don’t mind her being a Christian? Or should she become a Muslim?’
‘Why should she?’ he asked. ‘A creature without soul and intelligence has no faith anyway. No Paradise or Hell is waiting for a woman. When she dies she just disintegrates into nothing. The sons must of course be Shiites.’ I nodded. He rose and went to the bookcase. His long hands, the hands of a wise monkey, drew out a dusty book. I glanced at the cover. The Persian title read:Dshainabi:Tewarichi Al-Y-Seldjuk (The story of the House of the Seldjuks). He opened the book. ‘Here we are,’ he said, ‘page 207.’ Then he read aloud: ‘In the Year of the Flight 637 Sultan Alaeddin Kaikobad died in the castle of Kabadia. Chajasseddin Keichosrov mounted the throne of the Seldjuks. And he took in marriage the daughter of a Georgian Prince, and so great was his love for this Christian Georgian, that he ordered her image to be stamped next to his own on the coins of his realm. Then the wise men and the pious men came to him and said: “It is not for the Sultan to go against the Laws of God. This scheme is a sin.” The Mighty One became full of wrath and said: “God has placed me above you. Your fate is obedience.” Then the wise men and the pious men went away and were sad, but God enlightened the Sultan. He called the wise men and the pious men back and spoke thus: “I will not go against the Holy Laws God has imposed upon me. Be it therefore thus: The Lion with a Long Mane and a Sword in his Right Paw—I am that. The Sun rising above my Head—that is the woman I love. Let that be the Law.” Since that time the Lion and the Sun are the symbols of Persia. But wise men say: “there are no women more beautiful than the women of Georgia.”’ Mustafa closed the book and grinned. ‘There you are—you’re doing what Keichosrov did then. There’s no law against it. Georgian women are part of the loot the Prophet has promised his devout followers: “Go and take them.” Thus it is written in the book.’ His gloomy face had suddenly become soft. The wicked little eyes shone. He was happy to disperse the small-minded scruples of the twentieth century with the words of the Holy Book. May the unbelievers see where real progress lies. I embraced and kissed him. Then I went home, and my steps were firm and strong in the dark alleys. The Holy Book, the old Sultan and wise Mustafa were on my side.
12
The desert is the gate to a mysterious and unfathomable world. Dust and stones are whirling under my horse’s hooves. My Terek Cossack’s saddle is soft, as if filled with down. In this saddle the Cossack can sleep, stand up and lie down. All his earthly goods are in his saddle bags: a loaf of bread, a bottle of vodka, and a bag of gold coins, his loot from a Kabardin village. My saddle bags are empty. I am charging along in the blustering desert wind, nothing in the endless grey sands. From my shoulder hangs the Burka, the black Kabardin felt cape, softly protecting me from heat or cold. Robbers and riders have invented this garment for robbing and riding. Neither the sun’s rays nor the drops of rain can penetrate it. It can easily be made into a tent, and all the profit from a daring robbery can be hidden in the black folds of the Burka. Like parrots in a cage kidnapped girls crouch behind their captors, protected by the wide felt cape.
I ride to the Gate of the Grey Wolf. Prehistoric titans erected these two weatherbeaten grey rocks in an ocean of sand, in the middle of the desert near Baku. Sary Kurt, the Grey Wolf, the ancestor of the Turks, once led the tribe of the Osmans through this strong narrow gate to the green plains of Anatolia, so says an old legend. In the nights of the full moon the jackals and desert wolves gather at the rocks and howl, like dogs howling at a corpse. They have a cosmic sense for the smell of death, and they feel that the moon is a corpse. The dogs in his house begin to howl when a man is about to die. They can smell death even while the man is still alive. They are kin to the desert wolves, just as we, Russian subjects, are kin to the wolves Enver Bey is leading to Caucasia. I am riding through the emptiness of the big desert, my father next to me. When he is in the saddle he seems to be one with his horse, a centaur. ‘Safar Khan,’ my voice is hoarse, it is only seldom that I call my father by his name. ‘Safar Khan, I must talk to you.’
‘Talk while we’re riding, my son. It is easier to talk when horse and rider are united.’ Is my father laughing at me? My whip grazes my horse’s flank. My father raises his eyebrows. One small movement of his thighs, and he has caught up with me.
‘Well, my son?’ his voice seems to mock me.
‘I want to marry, Safar Khan.’
A long silence. The wind is whistling by. Stones are whirling under our horses’ hooves. At last his answer: ‘I’ll build a villa for you. I know of a place on the Esplanade. I suppose there’s a stable there. During the summer you can stay at Mardakjany. You’ll have to call your first son Ibrahim, in honour of our ancestor. I’ll give you a motor car, if you want one. But there’s really no point in having one, we haven’t got the roads for them. A stable full of horses is better.’
Silence again. The Gate of the Grey Wolf is behind us. We are riding towards the sea, towards the suburb of Bailov. My father’s voice sounds far away: ‘Shall I go and find a beautiful wife for you, or have you managed to find one yourself? Nowadays it seems to happen quite often that young people chose their women for themselves.’
‘I want to marry Nino Kipiani.’
My father’s face is immobile. His right hand caresses the horse’s mane. ‘Nino Kipiani,’ he says, ‘Her hips are too narrow. But I believe all Georgians are built like that. Yet they bear healthy children.’
‘Father!’ I do not quite know why I feel disgusted, but I do. He looks at me sideways and smiles.
‘You are still very young, Ali Khan. A woman’s hips are much more important than her knowledge of languages.’ He was deliberately casual: ‘When do you want to marry?’
‘In autumn, when Nino has finished school.’
‘Very good. Then the child will be born next May. May is a lucky month.’
‘Father!’ Again I was overwhelmed by a fury that I did not understand myself. I feel my father is making a fool of me. I am not marrying Nino because of her hips or her knowledge of languages—I’m marrying her because I love her. My father smiles. Then he stops his horse and says: ‘The desert is wide and empty. It does not matter which hill we breakfast on. I’m hungry. Let us rest here.’ We get off our horses. From his saddle my father takes a loaf of bread and some sheep’s cheese, and offers me half of it. But I am not hungry. We are lying in the sand, he is eating and looking into the far distance. Then his face becomes serious, he raises himself and sits straight like a ramrod, his legs crossed. He says: ‘It is very good that you marry. I have been married three times. But the
women died, like flies in autumn. And now, as you know, I am not married at all. But when you get married, I might marry too. Your Nino is a Christian. Do not let her bring the foreign faith into our home. A woman is a fragile vessel. That is important to know. Do not beat her when she is pregnant. But never forget: you are the master, and she lives in your shadow. You know that every Muslim is allowed four wives at a time. But it is better for you to be content with just one. Except if Nino does not have children. Do not be unfaithful. Your wife has the right to every drop of your sperm. Eternal damnation awaits the adulterer. Be patient with her. Women are like children, only much more sly and vicious. That, too, is important to know. Cover her with presents if you want to, give her silks and jewels. But if you ever need advice, and she gives it to you, do the exact opposite. That is perhaps the most important thing to know.’
‘But father, I love her.’
He shook his head. ‘Generally speaking it is not a good thing to love a woman. One loves one’s homeland, or war. Some men love beautiful carpets, or rare weapons. But—it does happen, that a man loves a women. You know all the songs about the love of Leila and Madjnoun, or Hafis’ Ghasels of Love. All his life Hafis was singing about love. But some wise men say: “never in all his life has Hafis slept with a woman”. And Madjnoun was just a crank. Believe me: the man must look after the woman, but it is for her to love him. That is God’s will.’ I was silent, and my father did not say another word either. Maybe he was right! Love is not the most important thing in the world for a man. It was just that I had not yet reached his high pinnacle of wisdom. Suddenly my father laughed and cried merrily: ‘All right, tomorrow I’ll go to Prince Kipiani and talk it over with him. Or do the young people of today propose on their own?’
‘I’ll talk to the Kipianis myself,’ I said quickly.
We mounted our horses again and rode into Bailov. Soon we saw the oil derricks of Bibi-Eibat. The black scaffolding looked like an evil dark wood. The smell of oil filled the air. Workers, oil dripping from their hands stood near the drill holes, where the wide stream of oil gushed over the greasy earth. As we were passing Bailov prison we suddenly heard shots. ‘Is that an execution?’ I asked. No, this time it was not an execution. The shots came from the barracks of Bailov garrison. They were practising the art of warfare there. ‘Do you want to see your friends?’ asked my father. I nodded. We rode into the big parade ground, where Iljas Beg and Mehmed Haidar were exercising their companies. Sweat was running down their faces.
‘Right—Left—Right—Left!’
Mehmed Haidar’s face was very serious. Iljas Beg seemed to be a delicate puppet, directed by a mind other than his own. They came to us and saluted. ‘How do you like the army?’ I asked. Iljas Beg was silent. Mehmed Haidar looked black. ‘Better than school, anyway,’ he grunted.
‘We’re getting a new Commander. Count Melikov from Shusha!’ said Iljas Beg.
‘Melikov? I know him. Isn’t he the one with the red-golden horse?’
‘That’s the one. The whole garrison is already full of tales about this horse.’
We were silent. Thick dust lay on the parade ground. Iljas Beg looked dreamily at the gate, jealousy and longing in his eyes. My father clapped a hand on his shoulder: ‘Don’t be jealous of Ali Khan’s liberty. He is just about to give it away.’ Iljas Beg laughed, embarrassed:
‘Yes, but he’s giving it to Nino.’
Mehmed Haidar raised his head inquisitively. ‘Huhu,’ he said, ‘and about time too.’
He was a husband of long standing, his wife wore the veil. Neither Iljas Beg nor I knew as much as her name. He looked at me patronisingly, his low brow furrowed, and said: ‘Now you’ll see what life is really about.’ That, coming from him, sounded very silly. What could Mehmed Haidar and his veiled wife possibly know of life? I shook hands with both my friends and we left.
When I came home I lay down on the divan. An Asiatic room is always cool. During the night coolness fills it like water running into a well. And during the day one comes into it out of the heat as if into a cool bath. Suddenly the telephone rang. Nino’s voice complained: ‘Ali Khan, I’m dying of heat and mathematics. Come and help me!’
Ten minutes later Nino stretches out her slender arms to me. Her delicate fingers are inkstained, and I kiss these stains. ‘Nino, I have talked to my father. He agrees.’ Nino trembles and laughs. Shyly she looks round the room and blushes. She stands quite close to me, and I looked into her widened pupils. She whispers: ‘Ali Khan, I’m afraid, I’m so afraid.’
‘Of the exam, Nino?’
‘No.’ She turns away and looks at the sea. Then she pushes her hand through her hair and says: ‘Ali Khan, a train goes from the town X to the town Y, doing 50 miles an hour …’ My sweet! I bend over her schoolbooks.
13
Thick fog rolled in from the sea, filling the town. On the street corners lanterns smoked darkly. I was running along the Esplanade, faces appearing before me and disappearing, indifferent or frightened. I stumbled over a wooden plank, thrown across the road, and fell against the squatting form of an ambal, a worker from the port. His eyes had a veiled look, gazing into the far distance. His thick mouth was moving, he was chewing hashish, having wild visions. I thumped my fist on his back and ran on. The windows of the little houses near the port winked at me. I stepped into some glass that was lying about, heard it breaking and saw a Persian face, distorted with terror. A stomach suddenly appeared before me. This vision of human obesity made me raving mad; I pushed my head into it with all my might. It was soft and fat. A voice said good naturedly: ‘Good evening, Ali Khan.’ I raised my head and saw Nachararyan looking down on me, a smile on his face. ‘Damnation!’ I cried, and was about to run on, but he got hold of me:
‘You’re upset, my friend. You’d better stay with me.’ His voice sounded friendly. Suddenly I was very tired. I just stood there, exhausted and dripping with sweat. ‘Let’s go to Fillipojanz,’ he said. I nodded. It was all one to me. He took my hand and led me along Barjatinsky Street to the big coffee house. When we sank into the deep chairs he said understandingly: ‘Amok, Caucasian amok. It’s probably this oppressive heat. Or is there any special reason, Ali Khan, that makes you rush about raging like that?’ I sat in the coffee house in the room with soft chairs and walls covered with red silk, sipped hot tea and told Nachararyan the whole story: how I had telephoned the old Kipianis, asking to be received today, how Nino had tiptoed out of the house, stealthily and afraid, how I had kissed the Princess’s hand and shaken hands with the Prince, how I had spoken of our ancient family tree, and of my family’s revenues, how I had asked for the Princess Nino’s hand in marriage, and all that in such perfect Russian, that even the Czar might have envied me.
‘And then, my friend?’ Nachararyan seemed very interested indeed.
‘And then? Just listen to this!’ I copied the Prince’s move-movements and his voice with its slight Georgian accent: ‘My dear son, esteemed Khan. Please believe me, I could not imagine a better husband for my child. What happiness for a woman to be chosen by a man of your character. But there is Nino’s age. After all, she is still a schoolgirl. What does a child like that know of love? Surely we are not going to have the Indian child marriage system here. And then: the differences in religion, upbringing, descent. I say this for your own sake as well as for hers. I’m sure your father thinks the same. And then: these times, this terrible war. God knows what will become of us all. I don’t want to stand in her way. But let’s just leave it like that for the moment, let’s leave it till the end of the war. You’ll both be older then. And if you then feel as strongly about it as you do today, we can have another talk.’
‘And what will you do now, Khan?’ asked Nachararyan.
‘Kidnap Nino and take her to Persia. I can’t take this lying down! To say No to a Shirvanshir! Who does he think he is? I feel dishonoured, Nachararyan. The House of Shirvanshir is older than the Kipianis. Under Aga Mohammed Shah we destroyed the whole of Georgia.
Then any Kipiani would have been only too pleased to give his daughter to a Shirvanshir. What does he mean, difference in religion? Is Christianity better than Islam? And my honour? My own father will laugh at me. A Christian refuses me his daughter. We Mohammedans are wolves who have lost their teeth. A hundred years ago …’ My fury choked me and stopped my outburst. Just as well—already I had said much that would better be left unsaid. Nachararyan was a Christian too. He had every right to feel insulted. But he was not:
‘I understand your rage. But he has not refused you. Of course it is ridiculous to wait for the end of the war. He just cannot realise that his daughter has grown up. I’m not against kidnapping her. It is an old, well established way of settling things, quite in the tradition of our country. But surely it is a last resort. Somebody should explain to the Prince the cultural and political significance of this marriage, I’m sure he’d come round then.’
‘But who would do that?’
Nachararyan clapped his broad palm on his breast and cried: ‘I will. Depend on me, Khan!’
I looked at him, astonished. What did this Armenian have in mind? It was the second time he had interfered in my life. Maybe he was trying to make friends among the Mohammedans, seeing that the Turks were advancing. Or maybe he really planned to form an Alliance of the Caucasian People. I did not care. Obviously he was an ally. I gave him my hand. He kept it in his: ‘Just leave it to me. I’ll keep you informed. And no kidnapping. Only as a last resort.’
