Ali and Nino

by Kurban Said

  I got up. I had a strong feeling that I could trust this fat man. I embraced him and left the coffee house. When I came out into the street someone followed me. I turned and saw Suleiman Aga, an old friend of my father’s. He had been sitting inside. His hand was heavy on my shoulder: ‘For shame, a Shirvanshir embraces an Armenian.’ I gasped. But already he had disappeared into the fog. I walked on. What a good thing it was, I thought, that I had not told my father why I went to the Kipianis today. I will just say that I have not spoken to them yet. When I put the key into the keyhole of our door I shook my head thoughtfully: ‘Isn’t it stupid—this hatred for the Armenians.’

  All through the next few weeks my life revolved round the black box of the telephone. This ill-formed thing with the big crooked handle had suddenly become an instrument of overwhelming significance. I sat at home day after day and growled something incomprehensible when my father asked me why I was hesitating to put my proposal. From time to time the black ogre gave the alarm, I raised the earpiece, and Nino reported the dispatches from the battlefield: ‘Is that you, Ali? Listen: Nachararyan is sitting with Mama, talking about the poems of her grandfather, the poet Iliko Tshavtshavadse.’ And a bit later: ‘Ali, can you hear me? Nachararyan says that Rustaveli and Tamar’s epoch have been strongly influenced by Persian culture.’ And later again:

  ‘Ali Khan! Nachararyan is having tea with Papa. He just said: “The magic of this town lies in the mystical bond between its races and peoples”.’ Half an hour later: ‘He oozes wisdom like a crocodile oozing tears. He says: “The race of a peaceful Caucasus is forged on the anvil of Baku”.’ I laughed and put the earpiece down.

  And so, it went on, day after day. Nachararyan was eating and drinking and sitting with the Kipianis. He went on excursions with them, and gave them advice, some of it practical, some mythical. I followed this show of Armenian cunning with amazement: ‘Nachararyan says the moon was the first money. Gold coins and their power over people are the result of the ancient moon cult of the Caucasians and the Iranians. Ali Khan, I can’t stand this nonsense any more. Come to the garden.’

  We met at the old fortress wall. Quickly and hastily she told me how her mother had entreated her not to trust her life to a wild Muslim. How her father, half jokingly, had warned her that I would certainly put her into the harem, how she, little Nino, had laughed, but at the same time warned her parents: ‘You just wait—he might kidnap me. What will you do then?’ I caressed her hair. I knew my Nino. She gets what she wants, even if she does not really know what it is. ‘This war could go on for another twenty years,’ she complained. ‘Isn’t it terrible that they want us to wait such a long time?’

  ‘Do you love me so much Nino?’

  Her lips trembled. ‘We just belong together. My parents make it so difficult for me. But I’d have to be old and weather-beaten like this stone to give way. And moreover: I really do love you. But woe to you if you kidnap me.’ Then she was silent, for you cannot kiss and talk at the same time. Then she crept home stealthily, and the telephone game began again: ‘Ali Khan, Nachararyan says his cousin in Tiflis has written that the Governor is all for mixed marriages. He calls it the physical penetration of the Orient with Western Culture. Can you understand that?’ No, I could not. I just hung about the house, saying as little as possible. My cousin Aishe, who was in the same form as Nino, came to tell me that Nino had been given the lowest marks five times in three days, and that everybody was saying it was all my fault. I should think more of Nino’s homework than of her future. I was ashamed and played Nardy with my cousin. She won and promised to help Nino at school. Again the telephone rang: ‘Is that you? They have been talking for hours of politics and business. Nachararyan says he envies the Mohammedans because they are free to invest money in Persian estates. Who knows what will become of Russia? Maybe everything will be smashed to pieces. Only Mohammedans can buy land in Persia. He knows for certain that already half of Giljan belongs to the Shirvanshir family. Surely the best insurance against any upheaval in Russia is to have estates in other countries. My parents are terribly impressed. Mother says there are some Mohammedans who have civilised souls.’

  Another two days, and the Armenian battle of wits was won. Nino was laughing and crying over the telephone. ‘We have the parents’ blessing, Amen.’

  ‘But now your father must call me. He has insulted me.’

  ‘Just leave it to me.’

  And that’s how it was. The Prince’s voice was soft and mild: ‘I have looked into my child’s heart. Her feeling for you is genuine and holy. It would be a sin to stand in her way. Come, Ali Khan.’

  I went. The Princess cried and kissed me. The Prince talked solemnly about marriage, but quite differently from the way my father had talked, who never thought that marriage consisted of mutual trust and respect. Man and wife should help each other by word and deed. And they must never forget that they have equal rights and that their souls are their own. I gave my solemn word not to make Nino wear the veil, and not to keep a harem. Nino came in, and I kissed her brow. She tucked her head between her shoulders, and looked like a little bird in need of protection. ‘But this is not to be made public,’ said the Prince. ‘First Nino must finish school. Work hard, my child. If you don’t pass you will have to wait another year.’ Nino raised her brows, that looked as if drawn by a stroke of the pen:

  ‘Don’t worry, father. I will pass, at school and in marriage. Ali Khan will help me in both.’

  Nachararyan was waiting for me, sitting in his car, when I came out of the house. His protruding eyes winked at me. ‘Nachararyan,’ I cried, ‘shall I give you a stud or a village in Daghestan, do you want a Persian medal, or an orange grove in Enseli?’ He thumped me on the back.

  ‘Neither—nor,’ he said. ‘I’m happy to have changed fate. That’s enough for me.’

  I looked at him gratefully. We drove out of town, to the Bay of Bibi-Eibat, where black machines tortured the oil-drenched earth. The House of Nobel interfered with the eternal forms of the landscape just as Nachararyan had interfered with my fate. An immense part of the sea had been forced away from the shore. Now the new-won land was not part of the sea anymore, and not yet part of the shore. But already someone with a good head for business had built a little teahouse on the newly won ground, as far out as possible, and there we sat and drank Kyachta tea, the best tea in the world, heavy as alcohol. Drunk with the fragrant potion Nachararyan talked for a long time about the Turks, who would invade Karabagh, and of the massacres of the Armenians in Asia Minor. I hardly listened.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said, ‘if the Turks come to Baku I’ll hide you in my house.’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ said Nachararyan.

  The stars were shining high above the sea, behind the Island of Nargin. Peaceful silence sank on the shore. ‘Sea and shore are like Man and Woman, united in eternal battle.’ Did I say that or did he? I did not know. He took me home. I told my father: ‘Kipiani sends his thanks for the honour the House of Shirvanshir has bestowed upon his family. Nino is my fiancée. Go tomorrow and arrange the rest.’ I was very tired and very happy.

  14

  Days turned into weeks, into months. Much had happened in the world, in the country and in my home. The nights had become long, yellow leaves lay dead and sorrowful in the Governor’s garden. The horizon was dark with autumn rain. Thin ice floated on the sea, and was pulverised against the rocky shores. One morning the streets were covered with snow, white and thin as a veil, and for one short moment winter reigned. Then the nights became shorter again.

  Camels came into town from the desert, with long sad steps, carrying sand in their yellow hair, looking far into the distance, with eyes that had seen eternity. They were carrying guns on their humps, the barrels hanging down their sides, crates with ammunition and guns: loot from the big battles. Turkish prisoners of war in their grey uniforms were marched through the town, tattered and bruised. When they came to the sea, little steamboats took them to the
Island of Nargin, where they died of diarrhoea, hunger or homesickness. If they escaped they died in Persia’s salt deserts, or in the leaden waters of the Caspian Sea. The war, that had begun so far away, had suddenly come close to us. Trains arrived from the north, packed with soldiers. Trains full of wounded arrived from the west. The Czar dismissed his uncle and was now himself leading his ten-million-strong army. The uncle now reigned over Caucasia, and his immense dark shadow lay heavy on our country. Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolayevitch! His long bony hand reached down even into the heart of Anatolia. His armies attacked wildly, driven by his rage against the Czar, that devoured his heart. Over snowy mountains and across sandy deserts thundered the wrath of the Grand Duke, towards Trapezunt, towards Stamboul. ‘The Long Nikolai’ people called him, and spoke fearfully of the wild frenzy in his soul, of his raging warriors’ fury. Innumerable countries joined in the war. It was one long front line, from Afghanistan to the North Sea, and the names of the allied monarchs, states and generals covered the pages of the newspapers like poisonous flies sitting on the corpses of dead heroes.

  And again it was summer. Scorching heat was pressing down, the asphalt on the streets was melting under our footsteps. In East and West victories were celebrated. I sat about in tea houses, coffee houses, friends’ houses and at home. Many reproved me because of my friendship with the Armenian Nachararyan. Iljas Beg’s regiment was still billeted in town, practising the rules of warfare on the dusty parade ground. The opera, the theatre and the cinemas were playing, as before the war. Much had happened, but nothing had changed in the world, in town and in my home.

  When Nino came to me, sighing under the burden of wisdom, my hand touched her smooth skin. Her eyes were deep, filled with a curious fear. My cousin Aishe told me that the teachers, with silent forbearance, put one ‘passed’ after another into the book of records for the future Madame Shirvanshir. When Nino and I walked along the street the eyes of her school friends followed us as long as they could see us. We went to the City Club, the theatre, to balls, but we were hardly ever alone. Our friends surrounded us like a steep wall of apprehensive kindness. Iljas Beg, Mehmed Haidar, even pious Seyd Mustafa accompanied us. They did not always agree amongst themselves. When Nachararyan, fat and rich, sat sipping his champagne, talking of mutual love between the peoples of the Caucasus Mehmed Haidar’s face became dark, and he said: ‘I believe, Mr. Nachararyan, that you need not worry about that. After the war there’ll be only very few Armenians left anyway.’

  ‘But Nachararyan will be one of the ones left!’ cried Nino. Nachararyan was silent, and just sipped his champagne. It was rumoured that he was transferring all his money to Sweden. I did not care one way or the other. When I asked Mehmed Haidar to be a little more friendly to Nachararyan he drew his brows together: ‘I can’t stand Armenians, God knows why.’

  Then one day Nino stood in the Examination Hall of the Lyceum of the Holy Queen Tamar, proving her maturity by mathematical equations, classical references, historical data, and in desperate cases by imploring looks from her big Georgian eyes. And it worked—she passed.

  When I took my radiant Nino home after the ball the girls of the Lyceum gave to celebrate their successes, old Kipiani said: ‘Now you are engaged. Pack your trunks, Ali Khan. We are going to Tiflis. I must introduce you to the family.’ So we went to Tiflis, the capital of Georgia.

  * * *

  Tiflis was like a jungle, and each tree had its own name, and was an uncle, a cousin or an aunt. It was not at all easy to know one’s way about. Names that sounded like ancient steel came whirling through the air: Orbeliani, Tshavtshavadse, Zereteli, Amilachvari, Abadshidse. There was a party in the Didube Gardens, in the outskirts of the town, given by the House of Orbeliani, in honour of the new cousin. Georgian musicians played the ‘Mravalyaver’, the Kachetian Song of War, and the wild Chevsourian ‘Lelo’. Abashidse, a cousin from Kutai, sang the ‘Mgali Delia’, the Storm Song of the Imereti Mountains. An uncle danced the ‘Dawlour’, and an old, white-bearded man jumped on the carpet that covered the green lawn and froze in the pose of ‘Bouknah’. The party went on all night. When the sun rose languidly behind the hills the musicians began the hymn ‘Arise, Queen Tamar, Georgia is weeping for you’. I was sitting quietly at the table, Nino beside me. Suddenly daggers and swords sparkled. This was the Georgian Dance of Knives, performed at dawn by a crowd of cousins, and it seemed a play, enacted on the stage, unreal and far away.

  I was listening to my neighbours’ conversations: They sounded like echoes coming from long lost centuries: ‘Under Saakadse a Zereteli defended Tiflis from Ghengis Khan.’ ‘You know of course that we Tshavtshavadses are older than the Bagrations, the House of Kings.’ ‘The first Orbeliani? He came from China, three thousand years ago. He was one of the Emperor’s sons. Some of the Orbelianis have slit eyes even today.’ I looked shyly around. What price the few Shirvanshirs who had gone to Eternity before me, against all this? But Nino was on my side: ‘Never mind, Ali Khan. Of course my cousins’ family tree is very ancient and noble, but where were their ancestors when yours conquered Tiflis?’ I did not say anything but looked at her thankfully. Even now, in the middle of her own kinsmen, Nino felt herself the wife of a Shirvanshir. I was very proud.

  An old woman bent towards me and said: ‘This wine is pure, for God is in it. Any other form of intoxication comes from the devil. There are not many who know this. Drink, Ali Khan!’ The red Kachetian wine was like fluid fire. I hesitated, but in the end raised my glass in honour of the House of Orbeliani.

  The sun was shining when we drove back to town. I wanted to go straight to my hotel, but a cousin—or was it an uncle?—held me back. ‘Last night you were the guest of the House of Orbeliani, today you are mine. We will have breakfast in Purgvino, and our friends will come to lunch.’ I was the prisoner of Georgian nobility. So it went on for a whole week. Alsanian and Kachetian wine, roast mutton and Motali cheese—again and again. The cousins took turns like soldiers on the front of Georgian hospitality. Only we two remained: Nino and I. I was full of admiration for Nino’s staying power. At the end of the week she was still as fresh as dew in spring, her eyes smiled, her lips never grew tired of talking to cousins and aunts. Only a hardly perceptible hoarseness in her voice showed that for days on end she had danced, drunk wine, but hardly ever slept.

  On the morning of the eighth day the cousins Sandro, Dodiko, Vamech and Soso came to my room. I dived under the cover like a frightened rabbit. ‘Ali Khan,’ they said mercilessly, ‘today you are the guest of the Dshakelis. We’re going to their estates in Kadshory.’

  ‘Today I am nobody’s guest,’ I said darkly, ‘today the gates of Paradise will open for me, the poor martyr. The Archangel Michael with his sword of flame will let me pass, for I died on the Path of Righteousness.’

  The cousins looked at each other and laughed loud and unfeelingly. Then they said just one word: ‘Sulphur.’

  ‘Sulphur?’ I repeated, ‘Sulphur? That’s in Hell. But me—I’m going to Paradise.’

  ‘No,’ said the cousins, ‘Sulphur it is.’

  I tried to raise myself up in bed. My head was very heavy, and my limbs seemed just to dangle, as if they were not part of me at all. I looked into the mirror and saw a pale, greenish-yellow face with lustreless eyes. ‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘fluid fire indeed,’ and thought of the Kachetian wine. ‘Serves me right. A Muslim should not drink.’ I crept out of bed, moaning like an old man. And there were these cousins, with Nino’s eyes and her slender pliant figure, fresh and upright. Georgians seem to me like noble deer, strayed amongst the jungle mixtures of the Asiatics. No other Eastern race has this charm, these graceful movements, this fantastic lust for life and healthy enjoyment of leisure. ‘We’ll tell Nino,’ said Vamech. ‘We’ll be in Kadshory in about four hours time, when you’re all right again.’ He went out, and I heard his voice on the telephone: ‘Ali Khan is not feeling too well, quite suddenly. Now we’ll take him to the sulphur springs. Ask Princess Nino to star
t for Kadshory with her family, we’ll come a bit later. No, nothing serious. Just not feeling very well.’

  Lazily I dressed. I felt dizzy. All this Georgian hospitality was so completely different from the quiet, dignified receptions at my uncle’s house in Teheran. There we drank strong tea and talked of sages and poetry. Here they drank wine, danced, laughed and sang, were pliant and hard like a steel spring. Was this the gate to Europe? No, of course not. This was part of us, and yet so very different from the rest of us. A gate, but leading where? Perhaps to the last stage of wisdom, that gradually becomes unheeding playfulness. I did not know. I was just terribly tired. I hardly managed to get down the stairs. We got into the carriage. ‘To the bath,’ shouted Sandro. The coachman cracked his whip. We drove to a big building, covered by a cupola, in the quarter called the Maidan. A gaunt man stood in the doorway, half naked, looking more like a skeleton than a living person. His eyes gazed straight through us, into Nirvana. ‘Hamardshoba, Mekisse!’ cried Sandro. The man jerked into consciousness. He bowed low and said: ‘Hamardshoba, Tawadi. Good day, my Princes.’ Then he opened the door. The big warm hall was filled with benches, one or two naked bodies on each of them. We took our clothes off, and went along the corridor into the second room. There were square holes in the floor, filled with steaming hot sulphur water. As in a dream I heard Sandro’s voice: ‘Once upon a time a King went hunting, and his falcon followed a mountain-cock. The King waited a long time, but neither mountain-cock nor falcon returned. When he went searching for them he came to a rivulet of sulphur-coloured waters. In it both falcon and mountain-cock had drowned. Thus the King discovered the sulphur spring, and laid the foundation stone to the town of Tiflis. So here we are in the mountain-cock’s bath, and the Maidan outside is the grove through which the rivulet ran. With sulphur Tiflis began, and in sulphur it will end.’ Steam and the smell of sulphur filled the domed room.