Ali and Nino

by Kurban Said

  ‘You are satisfied, father?’

  ‘Nearly. There’s just one thing,’ he embraced me and looked deeply into my eyes, ‘why did you spare the woman?’

  ‘I don’t know, father. I was exhausted.’

  ‘It would have been better, my son. Now it is too late. But I won’t reproach you. We all are very proud of you, all the family.’

  ‘And what now, father?’

  Again he paced up and down, sighing distractedly. ‘Well, you can’t stay here. And you can’t go to Persia either. The police and two influential families are looking for you. The best thing is to go to Daghestan. Nobody will find you in an âoul. No Armenian and no policeman will dare to go there.’

  ‘How long for, father?’

  ‘For a very long time. Until the police have forgotten the whole affair. Until your enemies have made their peace with us. I’ll come and see you.’

  I left at night for Machatsh-Kalé, and from there went into the mountains. Small horses with long manes carried me along narrow paths to the far-away âoul, on the brink of the wild abyss. And there I was now, safely sheltered by Daghestan hospitality. ‘Kanly’, people said, and looked at me understandingly. Tender hands mixed hashish into my tobacco. I smoked much, and lay silent, tortured by visions. My father’s friend, Kasi Mullah, who had spread the shade of his hospitality over me, talked a lot, and the splinters of his words tore at the fevered dreams that again and again took me on the moonlit road. ‘Don’t dream, Ali Khan, don’t think, Ali Khan. Listen to me. Have you ever heard the story of Andalal?’

  ‘Andalal!’ I said woodenly.

  ‘Do you know what that is, Andalal? Six hundred years ago it was a beautiful village. A good, clever and brave prince reigned there. But so much virtue was too much for the people. So they came before the prince and said: “We are tired of you, leave us.” Then the prince wept, he mounted his horse, said good-bye to his family and went far away to Persia. There he became a great man. The Shah made him his adviser, and what he said the Shah did. He conquered many cities and countries. But his heart was bitter against Andalal. Therefore he said: “In the vales of Andalal are great treasures of gold and jewels. We will conquer Andalal.” And the Shah took his great army into the mountains. Then the people of Andalal said: “There are many of you, and you are down below. There are but a few of us, and we are up above. But higher still is Allah, who is but one, yet mightier than all of us.” So the people of Andalal fought, men, women and children. In the first row fought the prince’s sons, who had stayed in Andalal when he went away. The Persians were beaten. The Shah was the first to flee, and the traitor was the last one. Ten years passed. Then the prince grew old, and his heart yearned for his home. He left the Shah’s palace and rode to his country. The people recognised the traitor, who had led the enemy into their vale. They spat at him and closed their doors. All day long the prince rode through the village, but did not find one friend. At last he went to the Kadi and said: ‘I have come home to atone for the wrong I have done. Judge me according to the Law.” “Bind him,” said the Kadi, and announced: “The Law of our Fathers says this man shall be buried alive.” And the people cried: “Let it be so.” But the Kadi was a just man. “What can you say in your defence?” he asked, and the prince answered: “Nothing. I am guilty. Our fathers’ laws are honoured here. That is good. But there is also the law that says: ‘Whoever fights against his father, shall be killed.’ I demand my right. My sons have fought against me. Let them be beheaded on my grave.” “So be it,” said the Kadi, and he and all the people wept bitterly. For the prince’s sons were held in high esteem. But the Law must be fulfilled. So the traitor was buried alive, and his sons, the bravest warriors in the country, were beheaded on his grave.’

  ‘Silly nonsense,’ I grumbled. ‘Is that your best story? Your hero was the last one in this country, and he’s been dead for six hundred years, and on top of that he was a traitor.’

  Kasi Mullah sniffed, his feelings were hurt. ‘Have you heard of Imam Shamil?’

  ‘I know all about Imam Shamil.’

  ‘That is now fifty years ago. People were happy under Shamil, there was no wine, no tobacco. When a thief was caught his right hand was cut off, but there were hardly any thieves. Until the Russians came. Then the Prophet appeared to Imam Shamil and ordered him to start the Gasawat, the Holy War. All mountain peoples were tied to Shamil by terrible oaths, amongst them the people of the Tshetshen. But the Russians were strong. They threatened the Tshetshen, burnt their villages and destroyed their fields. Then the wise men of the tribe sent to Dargo, the Imam’s residence, to implore him to unbind them from their oath. But when they came to face him they did not dare to speak of what was in their hearts. Instead they went to the Imam’s mother, and she wept for the Tshetshen’s sorrow and said: “I’ll ask the Imam for you.” For the Imam had always been a good son, and his mother’s influence over him was great. He had said once: “Cursed be he, who brings sorrow to his mother.” When the Hanum spoke to him he said: “The Koran forbids treason. The Koran forbids the son to contradict his mother. My wisdom is not enough for this problem. I will fast and pray, so that Allah may enlighten my thoughts.” The Imam fasted for three days and three nights. Then he appeared before the people and said: “Allah has enlightened me and given me his Law: The first one who talks about treason to me shall be sentenced to one hundred strokes of the rod. The first one to talk to me about treason was the Hanum, my mother. I sentence her to one hundred strokes of the rod.” They brought the Hanum. The warriors tore off her veils, threw her on the steps of the mosque and raised their rods. But she received only one stroke. Then the Imam fell on his knees, wept and cried: “The Laws of the Almighty are unbreakable. No one can revoke them, not even I. But the Koran allows this: children can take upon themselves the parent’s punishment. Therefore I take upon me the rest of my mother’s punishment.” The Imam took off his robe, lay down on the steps of the mosque in front of all the people and cried: “Now hit me, and as sure as I am Imam, I’ll have your heads cut off if I feel that you do not use all your strength.” The Imam suffered ninety-nine strokes. He lay there bathed in blood, his skin in tatters. The people, beholding this, were horrified, and nobody ever dared to talk about treason again. That is how the mountains were governed fifty years ago. And the people were happy.’ I was silent.

  The eagle had disappeared from the sky. Twilight was falling. The Mullah appeared on the minaret of the little mosque. Kasi Mullah unfolded the prayer rug, and we prayed, our faces turned to Mecca. The Arabic prayers sounded like old war songs. ‘Go now, Kasi Mullah. You are a friend. I’ll sleep now.’ He looked at me suspiciously. Then he sighed and mixed the hashish grains. When he went out I heard him saying to a neigh-bour: ‘Kanly very ill.’ And the neighbour answered: ‘Nobody is ill for very long in Daghestan.’

  19

  A single file of women and children was walking through the village, their faces drawn and tired. They had walked a very long way. In their hands they carried small satchels, filled with earth and manure, clasping the precious burden tightly, like a golden treasure. They had collected it in far-away villages, giving in exchange sheep, silver coins and handwoven lengths of material. Now they were going to spread the dearly bought earth on the bleak rocks, so the poor acres could bear corn to feed the people. The fields hung on a slant over the abyss. Strapped on a chain, men slid down on to the little platforms, and carefully crumbled the new earth over the rocky ground. A rough wall was put up over the future field, to protect it from wind and landslides. These acres, three paces long, four paces wide, were the mountain people’s most treasured possession. Early in the morning the men went out to the fields. They said a long prayer, and only then bent over the good earth. When the wind was strong the women brought their blankets to cover the dear land. They caressed the seeds with slender brown fingers and later cut the few blades with little scythes. They ground the grains and baked flat long loaves. Into the first loaf a coin was put, the
people’s thanksgiving for the miracle of the seed.

  I was walking along the wall of one of the tiny acres. Up on the rocks sheep were stumbling about. A farmer, wearing a broad white felt hat, came driving along on a two-wheeled cart. The wheels were squeaking like screaming babies, I had heard the noise when he was a long way off. ‘Little brother,’ I said, ‘I’ll write to Baku for somebody to send you some grease for your axles.’ The farmer grinned.

  ‘I’m just a simple man, why should I hide myself? They can all hear my cart coming, that’s why I don’t grease my axles. Only the Abreks do that.’

  ‘The Abreks?’

  ‘Yes, the Abreks, the outcasts.’

  ‘Are there many of them?’

  ‘Enough. They are robbers and murderers. Some of them murder for the good of the people, others for their own good. But they all must swear a terrible oath.’

  ‘What oath?’

  The farmer stopped his cart and got off. He leaned against the wall of his field, took a piece of sheep’s cheese from his bag, broke it with his long fingers and gave me half of it. Dark hairs were in the glutinuous mass. I ate. ‘The oath of the Abreks. You don’t know it? At midnight the Abrek creeps into the mosque and swears: “By this holy place, that I venerate, I swear that from today on I will be an outcast. I will shed human blood and have pity for no one. I will wage war on everybody. I swear to rob people of everything dear to their hearts, their conscience and their honour. I will stab the child on his mother’s breast, put fire to the poorest beggar’s hut and bring sorrow to all places where men rejoice. If I do not fulfill this oath, if love or pity ever creep into my heart, may I never see my father’s grave again, may water never quench my thirst nor bread my hunger, may my body be cast on to the road and a dirty dog relieve himself on it.”’ The farmer’s voice was solemn, his face turned towards the sun, his eyes were green and deep. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is the oath of the Abreks.’

  ‘Who swears this oath?’

  ‘Men who have suffered much injustice.’ He fell silent. I went home. The square of the âoul looked like dice. The sun was beating down on us. Maybe I myself was an Abrek, an outcast, driven into the wild mountains? Should I swear this bloodthirsty oath, like the robbers of Daghestan? The words were still ringing in my ears, tempting me. Then I saw three strange saddled horses in front of my cottage, one of them with silver reins. On the terrace sat a sixteen-year-old fat boy, a golden dagger in his belt. He waved at me and laughed. It was Arslan Aga, a boy from our school. His father owned rich oil wells, and the boy was not very strong, so he often went to the spas of Kislovodsk. I hardly knew him, for he was much younger than I. But here, in the lonely mountains, I embraced him like a brother. He blushed with pride and said: ‘I happened to pass this way with my servants, so I thought I’d come and see you.’

  I clapped my hand on his shoulder. ‘Be my guest, Arslan Aga. Tonight we’ll celebrate, in honour of our home town.’ Then I shouted into the hut: ‘Kasi Mullah, prepare a feast. I have a guest from Baku.’ Half an hour later Arslan Aga was sitting crosslegged on the mat, eating roast mutton and cake, absolutely overcome with delight.

  ‘I’m so happy to see you, Ali Khan. You live like a hero, in this far village, hiding from the blood-feud. But don’t worry. I won’t give you away.’ I was not at all worried. It was obvious all Baku knew where I was.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Seyd Mustafa told me. I saw that your village is practically on my way, and he asked me to give you his regards.’

  ‘And where are you going, Arslan Aga?’

  ‘To Kislovodsk. These two servants are going with me.’

  ‘Oh.’ I smiled. He looked very innocent. ‘Tell me, Arslan Aga, why didn’t you go the direct way, by rail?’

  ‘Well, I wanted a bit of mountain air. I got off at Machatsh-Kalé and took the direct road to Kislovodsk.’ He crammed his mouth full of cake and chewed happily.

  ‘But the direct road to Kislovodsk is a three-day journey from here.’

  Arslan Aga pretended to be very surprised: ‘Is it really? Then they’ve given me the wrong information. But I’m glad, because at least I have had the chance to see you.’ It was quite obvious that the imp had made the detour on purpose, so he could tell them at home he had seen me. It seemed I had quite a reputation in Baku. I poured wine for him, and he drank with big gulps. Then he came a bit closer: ‘Have you killed anybody since then, Ali Khan? Please tell me, I swear I won’t give you away.’

  ‘Oh yes, a few dozen.’

  ‘Have you really?’ He was delighted, kept on drinking wine, and I kept pouring it out. ‘Are you going to marry Nino? They’re betting on it all over the town. People say you still love her.’ He laughed gaily and went on drinking: ‘You know, we were all so surprised. We didn’t talk of anything else for weeks and weeks.’

  ‘Didn’t you? Well, what’s the news in Baku, Arslan Aga?’

  ‘Oh, in Baku—nothing. There’s a new newspaper. The workers are on strike. Our teachers say you’ve always been very impulsive. Tell me—how on earth did you find out?’

  ‘Dear Arslan, dear friend, enough of your questions. Now it’s my turn. Have you seen Nino? Or any of the Nachararyans? What do the Kipianis say?’

  The poor boy nearly choked on his cake. ‘But I know nothing, absolutely nothing. I haven’t seen anybody. I hardly ever went out.’

  ‘Why, my friend? Have you been ill?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I was ill. Very ill. I had diphtheria. Just imagine—I had to have three clysters a day.’

  ‘For diphtheria?’

  ‘… yes …’

  ‘Go on, drink, Arslan Aga. It’s very good for you.’

  He drank. Then I leaned towards him and asked: ‘My dear friend, when have you last spoken the truth?’

  He looked at me with big innocent eyes and said honestly: ‘At school, when I still knew how much is three times three.’ The sweet wine had made the dear boy quite drunk. He was still very young, and had now reached the stage where he would answer my questions more or less truthfully. He confessed to have come here because he was curious, he confessed that he had never had diphtheria, and that he knew all Baku gossip inside out. ‘The Nachararyans are going to murder you,’ he chatted happily, ‘but they are waiting for a suitable occasion. They’re not in a hurry. I went to see the Kipianis once or twice. Nino was ill for a long time. Then they took her to Tiflis. Now she’s back. I’ve seen her at the Club ball. You know—she was drinking wine as if it was water, and she was laughing all the time. She danced only with Russians. Her parents wanted to send her to Moscow, but she did not want to go. She goes out every day, and all the Russians are in love with her. Iljas Beg has been decorated and Mehmed Haidar has been wounded. Nachararyan’s villa has been burnt down, and I have heard that was your friends’ doing. Oh yes, another thing. Nino has a little dog, and she beats him every day, mercilessly. Nobody knows what she calls him, some say Ali Khan, others say Nachararyan. I think she calls him Seyd Mustafa. I’ve seen your father too. He says he’s going to box my ears if I keep on gossiping so much. Kipianis have bought an estate in Tiflis. Maybe they’ll go there for good.’ He was a pathetic little thing.

  ‘Arslan Aga, what on earth will become of you?’

  He returned my look drunkenly: ‘I’ll become a king.’

  ‘You will what?’

  ‘I want to become a king of a beautiful country with lots of cavalry.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Die.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘When I’m conquering my kingdom.’

  I laughed and he was very hurt. ‘They’ve given me three day’s detention, the swine.’

  ‘At school?’

  ‘Yes, and guess why. Just because I’ve written to the newspaper again, about the brutal way the children are treated. My God, what a fuss they made about that.’

  ‘But Arslan, no respectable person writes to newspapers.’

  ‘Yes they do, and w
hen I’m back I’ll write something about you. Without mentioning your name, of course. I’m your friend, and I’m discreet. Something like this: “Flight from blood-feud—a deplorable custom in our country.”’ He finished off the rest of the bottle, dropped on the mat and was asleep at once. His servant came in and gave me a disapproving look, as if to say: You should be ashamed Ali Khan, to make the poor child drunk like that. I went out into the night. What a degenerate little rat he was, that Arslan Aga. Surely half the stories he had told must be lies. Why should Nino beat her dog? God knows what she calls the cur!

  I went up the village street and sat down at the edge of the fields. Grimly the rocks looked down on me, dark in the shadow of the moon. Did they remember the past, or the dreams of men? High up in the sky the stars glittered like the lights of Baku. Thousands of light rays from the universe—and they met in my eyes. Dazedly I sat and looked at the sky, for an hour or more. ‘So she’s dancing with Russians,’ I thought, and suddenly wanted to be back in town, to finish that ghostly night. A lizard rustled by, and I caught it. Frightened to death the little heart beat against my hand. I caressed the cold skin. Small eyes were looking at me, rigid with fear or maybe with wisdom. I raised the tiny creature to my face. It was like a living stone, ancient, weather-beaten, covered with dried-up skin. ‘Nino,’ I said, and thought of the dog, ‘Nino, shall I beat you? But how does one beat a lizard?’ Suddenly the little thing opened its mouth. A small pointed tongue shot out and disappeared again, all in one second. I laughed, the tongue was so small and so quick. I opened my hand, and the lizard was gone. There were just the dark stones. I got up and went back to the hut. Arslan was still lying on the floor, sleeping, his head on the devoted servant’s knees. I went up to the roof and smoked hashish until I heard the call to prayer.