Ali and Nino

by Kurban Said

  I jumped into the saddle. My whip just grazed the wonderful animal’s flank. One enormous jump—and I was out of the barrack yard. We chased along the sea. Full of hate I kept beating the horse. Houses danced past, as sparks flew from the horse’s hooves. My wild fury grew and grew. I tore at the bridle, the horse reared up and raced on. At last—the clay huts of the suburbs were behind me. I saw the fields lying peacefully in the moonlight, and there was the road to Mardakjany. The night air made me feel a bit cooler. Melon fields, were now on our right and left, big round fruit looking like lumps of gold. The horse galloped on, with long, elastic, ravishingly even strides. I bent forward as far as I could, down to the golden mane. So that’s how it was! I could see everything quite clearly … I heard every word they had spoken. Suddenly I could follow the alien train of thought: Enver is fighting in Asia Minor. The Czar’s throne is threatened. The Grand Duke has Armenian battalions in his army. If the front breaks, Osman’s army will overrun Armenia, Karabagh and Baku. Nachararyan can foresee the consequences. Therefore gold bars, heavy Armenian gold, are sent to Sweden. That’s the end of the Caucasian Peoples’ fraternisation. I can see the two of them in the box in the theatre: ‘Princess, there’s no bridge between East and West, not even the bridge of love.’ Nino does not answer, but she is listening. ‘We must stand together, we who are threatened by Osman’s sword. We, Europe’s ambassadors in Asia. I love you, Princess. We belong together. Life is easy and simple in Stockholm. There is Europe, there is the West.’ And then I hear him quite plainly, as if I were there when he was saying the words: ‘No stone will be left standing in this country.’

  And the end: ‘You yourself must decide what your fate is to be, Nino. After the war we’ll live in London. We’ll be presented at Court. A European must be master of his fate. I hold Ali Khan in high esteem. But he is a barbarian, forever a prisoner of the desert.’

  I whip the horse. A wild cry. So howls the desert wolf when he sees the moon, with a long drawn, high mournful wail. All the night is just that one sound. I lean still further forward. My throat hurts. Why am I crying on the moonlit path to Mardakjany? I must save my fury. A sharp wind whips my face. That is what makes my tears fall, nothing else. I do not cry, not even when I suddenly know, that there is no bridge between East and West, not even the bridge of love. Smiling, radiant Georgian eyes! Yes, I’m one of the desert wolves, the grey Turkish wolves. Very nicely planned, wasn’t it? ‘We’ll get married in Moscow, and then we’ll go to Sweden.’ A hotel in Stockholm, warm and clean, with white linen. A villa in London. A villa? My face touches the red-golden skin. Suddenly I bite the animal’s neck. My mouth is filled with the salty taste of blood. A villa? Nachararyan has a villa in Mardakjany, like all rich people of Baku. Built of marble, standing in the fruit gardens of the oasis, near the sea. How quickly can a car go, and how swiftly runs a Karabagh horse? I know the villa. The bed is of mahogany, red and very wide. White sheets, just as in the hotel in Stockholm. He won’t talk philosophy all through the night. He will … of course he will. I see the bed before me, and Georgian eyes, veiled by lust and fear. My teeth sink deeply into the horse’s flesh. The wonderful animal races on. Go! Go! save your fury till you catch them, Ali Khan. It is a narrow road, this road to Mardakjany. Suddenly I laugh out loud. How marvellous, that we’re in Asia, in wild, reactionary Asia! We have no smooth roads for Western cars here, just rough paths for Karabagh horses. How quickly can a car go on these roads, and how swiftly races a horse from Karabagh? The melons on the roadside look at me as if they had faces. ‘Very bad road,’ the melons are saying, ‘not for English cars. Only for riders on Karabagh horses.’

  Will the horse survive this ride? I don’t think so. I can still see Melikov’s face on that day in Shusha, when his sabre was rattling and he was saying: ‘Only when the Czar calls to war I mount this horse.’ Hell! Let him weep for his horse, the old man from Karabagh. Again my whip swishes through the air, and again. The wind eats on my face as if with fists. A turning—wild bushes at the roadside—and at last—far away I can hear the rattling of the motor.

  Now two glaring lamps shed a white stream of light on the bumpy road. The car! Slowly it drags itself forward. A European car, helpless on Asia’s roads. My whip comes down again. Now I can recognise Nachararyan at the steering wheel.

  And Nino! Nino crouched in a corner. Why can’t they hear the horse’s hooves? Does he think there’s no need to listen to the night outside? He feels so secure in his European ear, going to Mardakjany. Let it stop, this lacquered box! Now, this minute! I slip the safety catch off my revolver. Come on, dear little Belgian tool, do your duty! I fire. For a second a narrow strip of flame blazes along the road. I stop the horse. Well done, little Belgian friend. The left tyre goes down like a suddenly deflated toy balloon. The lacquered box stops. I ride up to it, blood pounding in my temples. I throw my weapon away, I don’t really know any more what I’m doing. Two faces look at me, eyes staring in wild terror. A shaking alien hand clings to a revolver. So he did not feel so secure after all, in his European car. I see the fat fingers and the diamond ring. Quick, Ali Khan! Steady now. I draw my dagger. The trembling hand is not going to shoot. With a melodious whistle the dagger swishes through the air. Where did I learn to throw a dagger? In Persia? In Shusha? Nowhere! It is in my blood, in my veins, inherited from my wild ancestors, this knowledge of the exact arc the dagger must describe. Inherited from the first Shirvanshir, who went to India and conquered Delhi. A cry, surprisingly high and thin. A fat hand, spreading out its fingers, a line of blood running across the wrist. It is wonderful to see the enemy’s blood on the road to Mardakjany. The revolver drops on the bottom of the car. And suddenly there are hasty creeping scramblings and a fat stomach. One jump, and the man is running across the road into the wild bushes alongside. Nino sits still and upright in the car’s soft cushions. Quite without expression, her face is hard, as if made of stone. But her whole body is trembling uncontrollably, in the nightmare of this ghostly fighting in the dark. Far away I hear the thunder of hooves, drawing closer. I jump into the bushes. Sharp branches grasp me as if they were hands of unseen enemies. Leaves are rustling under my feet, dry twigs are cutting my hands. Far away in the bushes the hunted animal is breathing hotly—Nachararyan! A hotel in Stockholm! Fat greasy lips on Nino’s face!

  Now I see him. He is stumbling and tearing the bushes with his fat hands. Now he is running towards the sea across the melon fields. Why had I thrown away the revolver when I first saw him? I could use it now. Blood is running from my hands, torn by the thorny bushes. There—the first melon. Round fat stupid mask—are you grinning at me? I trample on it, and it bursts with a plop! under my heel. I’m running across the field. The dead face of the moon looks on. Cold golden floods of light on the melon field. You’ll never take gold bars to Sweden, Nachararyan. Now. I grab his shoulder. He turns, stands there like a block of wood, his eyes hating me, because now I know him for what he is. A blow—his fist lands on my chin. And again—just below my ribs. All right, Nachararyan, you have learnt boxing in Europe. I feel dizzy. For a few short seconds my breath stops. I’m only an Asiatic, Nachararyan, and I’ve never grasped the art of hitting below the belt. I can only go mad like the desert wolf. I jump. My arms go round his body, as if it were a tree trunk. My feet press against his fat stomach, my hands grip his fat neck. He is hitting out at me, wildly, forgetting all European training. I bend down, and we fall together. We’re rolling on the ground. Suddenly I’m under him, his hands throttling me. His mouth hangs down one side of his distorted face. My feet beat against his stomach, my heels going deep into his fat. He loosens the grip. For a split second I see the torn collar dragged to one side. My teeth sink into the fat white neck. Yes, Nachararyan, that’s how we fight in Asia. Not with blows below the belt, but with the grip of the grey wolf. I feel his veins trembling.

  A slight movement at my hip. Nachararyan’s hand grips my dagger. I had forgotten it in the heat of the moment. A sudden glint of steel
, and a piercing pain in my ribs. How warm my blood is. The thrust has slipped off my rib. I let go of his neck and tear the dagger from his wounded hand! Now he lies under me, his face turned up to the moon. I raise the dagger. He cries out—a long, thin wail, his head thrown back. All of his face is just mouth—the open gate of deadly fear. Hotel in Stockholm, you speared pig!

  Why do I hesitate? There is a voice behind me:

  ‘Kill him, Ali Khan, kill him!’

  It is Mehmed Haidar. ‘Just above the heart, thrusting down!’

  I know where the deadly spot is. But I want to hear the enemy’s pitiful voice just once more. Then: I raise my dagger. My muscles are taut. Just above the heart my dagger becomes one with the enemy’s body. He writhes, again, and yet again. Slowly I get up. There is blood on my suit. My blood? His blood? What does it matter?

  Mehmed Haidar bares his teeth. ‘Beautifully done, Ali Khan. I’ll admire you forever.’ My rib hurts. He supports me. Again we dive into the bushes, and again we are standing near the lacquered box, on the road to Mardakjany. Four horses, two riders. Iljas Beg raises his hand in greeting. Seyd Mustafa pushes his green turban off his brow. He holds Nino on his saddle, tight, like a vice. Slowly and softly, his eyes half closed as if in a dream he says: ‘What’s to be done with the woman? Will you stab her or shall I?’

  ‘Kill her, Ali Khan,’ Mehmed Haidar holds the dagger out to me.

  I look at Iljas Beg. He nods, his face as white as chalk. ‘We’ll throw the body into the sea.’

  I stand close to Nino. Her eyes are enormous … she had come running across the street to our school, bathed in tears, carrying her satchel. Once I sat under her bench and whispered: ‘Charlemagne was crowned in Aachen in the year 800.’ Why is Nino silent? Why does she not cry, as she did on that day when she came to me for help? It was not her fault that she did not know when Charlemagne was crowned. I cling to the horse’s neck and look at her. How beautiful she is, in Seyd’s saddle, by the light of the moon, looking at the dagger. Georgian blood, the noblest in the world. Georgian lips—Nachararyan has kissed them. Gold bars in Sweden—he has kissed her. ‘Iljas Beg, I’m wounded. Take Princess Nino home. The night is cold. Cover Princess Nino up. I’ll murder you, Iljas Beg, if Princess Nino is not taken home safely. You hear me, Iljas Beg. This is how I want it. Mehmed Haidar, Seyd Mustafa, I feel very weak. Help me home. Hold me. Let me lean on you, I’m bleeding to death.’

  I grasp the mane of the Karabagh horse, Mehmed Haidar helps me into the saddle. Iljas Beg comes close, takes Nino and puts her carefully on the soft cushions of his Cossack saddle. She does not resist. … He takes off his coat and puts it gently round her shoulders. He is still very pale. Just one look and one nod—Nino will be safe with him. Mehmed Haidar jumps into the saddle: ‘You are a hero, Ali Khan. You fought brilliantly. You did your duty.’ He puts his arm round my shoulder, supporting me. Seyd Mustafa’s eyes are downcast.

  ‘Her life belongs to you. You can take it, you can spare it. The Law permits either.’ He smiles dreamily. Mehmed Haidar puts the reins into my hand. Silently we ride through the night, towards the softly shining lights of Baku.

  18

  A narrow stone terrace on the brink of an abyss. Yellow rocks, dry, weather-beaten, no trees. Stones, immense, roughly put together to form coarse walls. Close together, square and simple, the huts hang down from the rocks of the abyss. The courtyard of one hut is the flat roof of the one below. Deep down the mountain stream is rushing, the rocks gleaming in the clear air. A narrow serpentine path winds through the stones and is lost from sight down below. This is an âoul—a mountain village in Daghestan. Inside the dark hut the floor is covered with thick mats. Outside two poles carry the narrow roof. An eagle hangs in the immense expanse of the sky, his wings spread out, motionless, as if made from stone.

  I am lying on the little roof, the amber mouthpiece of my nargileh between my lips, sucking the cool smoke into my lungs. My temples become cool, the blue smoke vanishes, carried away by the soft wind. A charitable hand has mixed Hashish grains into my tobacco. I look into the abyss and see faces, circling in the swimming fog. Well known faces—Rustem the Warrior and his Knights, from the rug on the wall of my room in Baku. I remember lying there, wrapped in thick silk covers. My rib hurt. The dressing was soft and white. Light steps next door. I can just hear the sound of voices. I listen. The voices become louder. My father speaks: ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I don’t know myself where my son is. I suppose he has fled to Persia, to his uncle. I’m very sorry.’

  The Inspector’s voice is loud and angry: ‘There’s a warrant out for your son. This is a case of murder. We’ll find him, even in Persia.’

  ‘I would be only too pleased. Any court would find him not guilty. It was done in affect, more than justified by what had gone on before. Besides …’

  I hear the rustle of clean crisp notes, or at least I think that is what I hear. Then silence. And again the Inspector’s voice: ‘Ah well, these young people. Quick at the draw with the dagger. I’m only a state servant. But I understand. The young man should not show himself in town. But the warrant has to go to Persia.’ The steps became fainter, and then silence reigned again. The ornamental writing on the carpet was like a labyrinth. My eyes followed the lines of the letters, and became lost in the lovely swirls of an N. Faces bent over me. Lips whispered words I did not understand. Then I was sitting up in bed and Iljas Beg and Mehmed Haidar were standing before me. Both smiling, both in battledress. ‘We’ve come to say good-bye. We’re posted to the front.’

  ‘Why?’

  Iljas Beg picks at his cartridges. ‘I took Nino home. She never said a word. Then I rode to the barracks. A few hours later everybody knew everything. Commander Melikov locked himself in and got dead drunk. He never wanted to see the horse again, and in the evening he had it shot. Then he volunteered for the front. My father just about managed to fix the court martial. But we’re posted to the front, straight to the front lines.’

  ‘Forgive me. It is all my fault.’

  Both protested vehemently. ‘No, you’re a hero, you did what a man has to do. We are very proud.’

  ‘Have you seen Nino?’

  They stood there, their faces stiff. ‘No, we have not seen Nino.’ Their voices were cold. We embraced. ‘Don’t worry about us. We’ll manage, front lines or no front lines.’ A smile, a greeting, and the door closed.

  I lay back on the pillows, looking at the red pattern of the carpet. My poor friends. It is all my fault. I sank into strange daydreams. The present had disappeared. Nino’s face was hovering in a mist, sometimes laughing, sometimes serious. Strange hands were touching me. Some one said in Persian: ‘Must take hashish. Very good for conscience.’ Some one put an amber mouthpiece into my mouth, and words came through the rags of my waking dreams: ‘My dear Khan, isn’t this dreadful. What a terrible thing to happen. I think it would be best if my daughter would follow your son. They should get married at once.’

  ‘Prince, Ali Khan cannot marry. He is Kanly now, open to the blood feud of the Nachararyans. I have sent him to Persia. He is in danger every hour of his life. He is not the right husband for your daughter.’

  ‘Safar Khan, I implore you. We will protect the children. They must go away, to India, to Spain. My daughter is dishonoured. Only marriage can save her.’

  ‘That is not Ali Khan’s fault, my Prince. And anyway, I’m sure she’ll find a Russian, or even an Armenian.’

  ‘But please! It was just a harmless evening drive, so understandable in this heat. Your son was too hasty—quite a wrong suspicion. He must make amends.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Prince. Ali Khan is Kanly and cannot marry.’

  ‘I too am a father, Safar Khan.’

  The voices stopped. Everything was quiet again. Hashish grains are round and look like ants. At last the bandages were taken off. I felt my scar—the first honourable scar on my body. Then I got up and paced the room, stepping hesitantly. The servants looked at me shyly,
with frightened eyes. The door opened, and my father came in. My heart was beating violently. The servant disappeared. For some time my father was silent. He paced the room, up and down, up and down. Then he stopped: ‘The police come every day, and not only the police. The Nachararyans are searching for you everywhere. Five of them have already gone to Persia. I have to have twenty men to guard the house. And, by the way, the Melikovs have declared a blood-feud against you too. Because of the horse. Your friends have been sent to the front.’ I looked down without replying. My father put his hand on my shoulder. His voice was soft: ‘I’m proud of you, Ali Khan, very proud. I would have done exactly the same.’