by Kurban Said
20
I don’t know myself how it all happened. One day I woke up and there was Nino standing before me. ‘You’ve become a lazybones, Ali Khan,’ she said, and sat down on my mat, ‘and what’s more, you snore, and that’s bad manners.’
‘It’s the hashish in my tobacco that makes me snore,’ I said darkly.
Nino nodded. ‘Then you’ll just have to stop smoking hashish.’
‘Why do you beat the dog, you wretch?’
‘The dog. Oh. I grab him by the tail with my left hand, and beat him on the back with my right until he cries.’
‘And what do you call him?’
‘I call him Kilimandsharo,’ said Nino softly. I rubbed my eyes, and suddenly saw everything clearly before me again: Nachararyan, the horse from Karabagh, the moonlit road, and Nino in Seyd’s saddle. ‘Nino,’ I shouted and jumped up. ‘How did you get here?’
‘Arslan Aga told everybody in town that you wanted to murder me. So I’ve just come.’ Her face bent towards me, her eyes full of tears. ‘Ali Khan, I’ve missed you so terribly.’ My hand sank into the darkness of her hair. I kissed her, and her lips opened, intoxicating me by her warmth. I put her on the mat, and with one grip tore away the flowered silk that covered her. Her skin was soft and fragrant. I caressed her tenderly, she breathed heavily, looked up into my eyes, and her small bosom was trembling in my hand. I held her, and she groaned under my close embrace. Her ribs showed under her skin, narrow and tender. I put my face on her breast. ‘Nino.’ I said, and it seemed this word had a magical power, that made all the tangible world disappear. There were only two big moist Georgian eyes, mirroring all: fear, joy, curiosity and sudden tearing pain. She did not cry. But suddenly she grabbed the cover and crept under the warm feathers. She hid her face on my breast, and every movement of her slender body was like the call of earth, thirsting for the fulfilling benediction of rain. Tenderly I moved the cover down. Time stood still. …
We lay there quietly, tired and happy. Then Nino said: ‘Now I’m going home. I see you’re not going to kill me after all.’
‘Did you come all by yourself?’
‘No, Seyd Mustafa brought me. He said he’d take me and kill me if I disappointed you. He’s sitting outside, his gun ready. You can call him if I’ve disappointed you.’ I did not call him, but kissed her instead.
‘And that is all you came for?’
‘No,’ she said honestly.
‘Tell me, Nino.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Why were you silent that night, when you were sitting in Seyd’s saddle?’
‘That was pride.’
‘And why are you here now?’
‘That too is pride.’
I took her hand and played with her rosy fingers: ‘And Nachararyan?’
‘Nachararyan,’ she said slowly, ‘you must not think he kidnapped me against my will. I knew what I was doing, and I thought it was the right thing to do. But it was wrong. It was my fault, and I deserved to die. That is why I was silent, and that is why I am here. Now you know all.’ I kissed her palm. She spoke the truth, even though the other was dead, and the truth was dangerous for her. She got up, looked around the room and said gloomily: ‘Now I’m going home. You needn’t marry me. I’m going to Moscow.’ I went to the door and opened it wide enough to see my pock-marked friend sitting outside, his legs crossed, his gun in his hand. His green belt was wrapped tightly round his stomach. ‘Seyd,’ I said, ‘call a Mullah and another witness. I’m getting married in an hour’s time.’
‘I’m not calling any Mullah,’ said Seyd, ‘just two witnesses. I’ll marry you myself. I’m entitled to do that.’
I closed the door. Nino was sitting up in bed, her black hair tumbling over her shoulders. She laughed: ‘Ali Khan, do you realise what you’re doing? You’re marrying a fallen woman.’
I lay down with her, our bodies close together. ‘You really want to marry me?’ Nino asked.
‘If you’ll have me. You know I’m Kanly. Enemies are searching for me.’
‘I know. But they won’t come here. We’ll just stay where we are.’
‘Nino—you mean you’ll stay here with me? In this mountain village, in this hut, without any servants?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I want to stay here, because you must stay here. I’ll do the housework, bake bread and be a good wife to you.’
‘And you won’t be bored?’
‘No,’ she said simply, ‘how could I—when we’ll be lying together under one cover?’ Someone knocked at the door. Nino slipped into my dressing gown. Seyd Mustafa came in, his green turban newly bound, and introduced the two witnesses. He sat down on the floor. From his belt he took a brass inkpot and a pen. On the inkpot was the inscription: ‘Only in Praise of God.’ He unfolded a sheet of paper and put it on his left palm. Then he dipped the bamboo pen into the ink. Daintily he wrote: ‘In the Name of God, the All-Merciful’. Then he turned to me: ‘What is your name, sir?’
‘Ali Khan Shirvanshir, son of Safar Khan of the House of Shirvanshir.’
‘What is your religion?’
‘Mohammedan, Shiite, in the interpretation of Imam Dshafar.’
‘What is your desire?’
‘To make public my wish to take this woman for my own.’
‘What is your name, my lady?’
‘Princess Nino Kipiani.’
‘What is your religion?’
‘Greek Orthodox.’
‘What is your desire?’
‘To be this man’s wife.’
‘Do you wish to retain your religion, or to change it to that of you husband?’
Nino hesitated for a while, then she raised her head and said proudly and decidedly: ‘I wish to retain my religion.’ Seyd was writing. The sheet was sliding over his palm, gradually getting covered with beautifully ornamented Arabic script. The marriage contract was ready. ‘Now you sign,’ said Seyd. I signed my name.
‘Which name do I sign now?’ asked Nino.
‘Your new name.’
With a steady hand she wrote: ‘Nino Hanum Shirvanshir’. Then the witnesses signed. Seyd Mustafa brought out the seal with his name on it and pressed it to the paper. There it was, in lovely Kufi script: ‘Hafis Seyd Mustafa Meshedi, Slave to the Lord of the World.’ He gave me the document. Then he embraced me and said in Persian: ‘I am not a good man, Ali Khan. But Arslan Aga told me that without Nino you’re going to ruin in the mountains, and becoming a drunkard. That is a sin. Nino asked me to take her here. If it is true what she says, love her. If it is not true we’ll kill her tomorrow.’
‘It is not true anymore, Seyd, but we won’t kill her, even so.’ He gave me a puzzled look. Then he looked round the room and laughed. One hour later we cast the hashish pipe ceremoniously into the abyss. And that was all there was to our wedding.
Quite unexpectedly life was wonderful again. The whole village smiled when I was walking along the street, and I smiled back, because I was happy, happier than I had ever been. I would have loved to spend all my life here on our roof-yard, alone with Nino who had such tiny feet and was wearing the full bright red Daghestan pantaloons, gathered at the knees. She adapted herself perfectly. Nobody would have guessed that she was used to another life, to think and act quite differently from all the other women in the âoul. No one kept servants in our village, so Nino refused to have any. She prepared our meals, chatted with the women and told me all the village gossip. I rode, hunted, brought game home to her and ate all the strange dishes her imagination concocted, and her taste discarded.
This was a day in our life: Early in the morning I watched Nino running barefoot to the well, carrying an empty earthenware jug. Then she came back, carefully placing her bare heels on the sharp stones. She carried the water jug on her right shoulder, her slender hands holding the jug tightly. Once only, on one of her first days, she stumbled and the jug fell. She wept bitterly—it was so humiliating. But the other women comforted her. Every day Nino fetched the wat
er, together with all the other village women. They walked in single file up the mountain, and I could see from afar Nino’s bare legs, and her eyes looking seriously ahead. She did not look at me, and I too looked past her. She had immediately understood the law of the mountains: never, under any circumstance, to show one’s love in front of other people. She came into the dark hut, closed the door and put the jug on the floor. She gave me a cup of water, and from a corner she fetched bread, cheese and honey. We ate with our hands, the way all people ate in the âoul. Nino soon mastered the difficult art of sitting on the floor-cross-legged. When we had finished eating Nino licked her fingers, showing white, gleaming teeth: ‘The custom here,’ she said, ‘demands I should now wash your feet. But as we are alone, and I have gone to the spring, you will now wash my feet.’ I put the funny little toys she called her feet into the water, and she splashed about, drops flying into my face. Then we would sit on the roof-yard, I on the cushions, and Nino at my feet, humming a song or just sitting silent, looking at me; while I never tired of looking at the face of my Madonna.
Every evening she would huddle under the bedclothes like a little animal: ‘Are you happy, Ali Khan?’ she asked me one night.
‘Very happy. And you? Don’t you want to go back to Baku?’
‘Oh no,’ she said seriously, ‘I want to show that I can do what all Asian women can: serve my husband.’
When the oil lamp was put out she would lie, staring into the darkness, contemplating important matters: whether she really ought to put so much garlic into the roast mutton, and whether the poet Rustaveli had had an affair with Queen Tamar? And what would happen if, while living in this village, she should suddenly get a terrible toothache? And why, did I think, had the woman next door taken her broomstick and beaten her husband so terribly? ‘Life is full of mysteries,’ she said sadly and fell asleep. During the night she woke up, bumped against my elbow and murmured very proudly and conceitedly, ‘I’m Nino’. Then she slept on, and I covered her slim shoulders with the blanket. ‘Nino,’ I thought, ‘you really deserve a better life than this in a Daghestan village.’
One day I went to the nearest small town, called Chunsach. I came back loaded with the fruits of civilisation: an oil lamp, a lute, a gramophone, and a silk scarf. Her face lit up when she saw the gramophone. It was a pity that in the whole of Chunsach I had not been able to find more than two records: a dance of the mountain people and an aria from Aida. We played and played them until we could not tell them apart. News from Baku was few and far between. Nino’s parents kept imploring us to go to a more civilised country, when they were not threatening to put a curse on us. Nino’s father came, but once only. When he saw how his daughter lived he exploded: ‘For God’s sake, get away from here at once! Nino will certainly fall ill in this wilderness!’
‘I’ve never felt better,’ said Nino. ‘Can’t you understand, father, we cannot go away. I don’t want to become a widow yet.’
‘But there are neutral countries, Spain, for instance. No Nachararyan can get at you there.’
‘But father, how can we get to Spain?’
‘Via Sweden.’
‘I’m not going to Sweden,’ said Nino furiously. The Prince returned to Baku and started sending monthly parcels of lingerie, cakes and books. Nino kept the books and gave the rest away. One day my father came. Nino received him with a shy smile, the smile of her schooldays, when confronted by an equation with too many foreign factors. This equation was soon solved: ‘You cook?’
‘I do.’
‘You fetch the water?’
‘I do.’
‘The long way has made me tired. Will you wash my feet?’ She fetched the jug and washed his feet.
‘Thank you,’ he said, took a long row of pink pearls from his pocket and put them round Nino’s neck. Then he ate a meal she had prepared and pronounced his judgment: ‘You have a good wife, Ali Khan, but a bad cook. I’ll send you a cook from Baku.’
‘Please don’t,’ cried Nino,’ I want to serve my husband.’ He laughed and sent her a pair of big diamond earrings.
It was very peaceful in our village. Only once Kasi Mullah came running with big news: an armed stranger had been caught on the outskirts of the âoul, obviously an Armenian. The whole village was in an uproar—I was their guest. My death would have been an everlasting blot on everyone’s honour. I went out to take a look at the man. He really was an Armenian. But of course it was impossible to tell whether he was a Nachararyan or not. The wise men of the village held a meeting, talked the matter over and decided to give the man a good hiding and chase him from the village. If he was a Nachararyan he would warn the others, if he was not, God would see the farmers’ good intentions and forgive them.
Somewhere on another planet war was raging. We neither heard nor saw anything of it. Our mountains were full of legends and fairy tales from the days of Shamil. War news never came our way. From time to time friends would send us newspapers, but I just threw them away unread. ‘Do you still remember there’s a war on?’ Nino asked one day. I laughed. ‘To be honest, Nino, I had forgotten all about it.’ There really could be no better life for me, even if it was just an interval between past and future: God’s incidental gift to Ali Khan Shirvanshir.
Then the letter came. An exhausted rider on a foam-covered horse brought it to our house. It was not from my father, nor from Seyd. ‘Arslan Aga to Ali Khan’ was written on it.
‘What can he want?’ said Nino astonished.
The rider said: ‘Many letters are on the way to you, Khan. Arslan Aga gave me a lot of money because he wanted his letter to be the first.’
‘This is the end of life in the âoul,’ I thought and opened the letter. I read: ‘In the Name of God. I greet you, Ali Khan. How are you, your horses, your wine, and the people you are living with? I am well, and so are my horses, my wine and my people. Hear me: Great things have happened in our town. The prisoners have left prison and are now walking about freely. “Where are the police?” I hear you asking. Behold—the police are now, where the prisoners used to be: in the prison near the sea. And the soldiers? There are no soldiers any more, either. I can see you shaking your head, my friend, and wonder how the Governor can allow all this? So let me tell you: yesterday our wise Governor decided to run away. He was getting tired of ruling over such bad people. He left behind a few old pairs of trousers and a cockade. Now you’re laughing, Ali Khan, and think I’m lying. But surprise, surprise! this time I’m not lying. I can hear you asking: “Why doesn’t the Czar send a new police force and a new Governor?” Let me tell you: there isn’t a Czar any more either. There just isn’t anything any more. I don’t know what the whole thing is called, but yesterday we gave the headmaster a good thrashing and nobody interfered. I am your friend, Ali Khan, and so I want to be the first one to tell you all this, even though many people in town are writing to you today. So here it is: all Nachararyans have gone home, and there are no police any more. Peace be with you, Ali Khan. I am your friend and servant Arslan Aga.’
I looked up. Nino had gone quite pale. ‘Ali Khan,’ she said, and her voice trembled, ‘the road is clear, we’ll go! we’ll go!’
In a strange ecstasy she kept repeating these words over and over again. She hung on my neck, sobbing ‘We’ll go!’ and her naked feet beat a tattoo on the sand in the courtyard. ‘Yes. Nino, of course we’ll go.’ I was happy and sad at the same time. The bare rocks of the mountains glistened in yellow splendour, There were the little huts, hanging over the abyss like beehives, and there was the little minaret, calling mutely for prayer and contemplation. That was our last day in the âoul.
21
The faces in the crowd showed a mixture of fear and joy. Scarlet banners with rather senseless slogans were stretched from one side of the street to the other. Market women gathered at street corners, demanding freedom for America’s Indians and Africa’s Bushmen. The tide had turned on the front: the Grand Duke had disappeared and crowds of ragged soldiers were lounging
about the town. There was some shooting during the night, and during the day the crowd was looting the shops.
Nino was bending over the atlas. ‘I’m looking for a country that is at peace,’ she said, and her finger crossed the many-coloured border lines. ‘Maybe Moscow. Or Petersburg,’ I said, mocking her. She shrugged her shoulders, and her finger discovered Norway.
‘I’m sure that’s a peaceful country,’ I said, ‘but how do we get there?’
‘We don’t,’ sighed Nino. ‘America?’
‘U-boats,’ I said cheerfully.
‘India, Spain, China, Japan?’
‘Either they’re at war, or we can’t get there.’
‘Ali Khan, we’re in a mousetrap.’
‘You are quite right, Nino. There’s no sense in running away. We will have to find a way to get a bit of common sense into our town, at least till the Turks come.’
‘What’s the use of having a hero for a husband!’ said Nino reproachfully. ‘I don’t like banners and slogans and speeches. If this goes on I’ll run away to your uncle in Persia.’
‘It won’t go on,’ I said, and left the house.
At the Islamic Benevolent Society a meeting was in progress. The fine gentlemen who at my father’s house a few months ago had cared so much for the future of our people were not amongst those present. Strong-muscled young men crowded the room. I met Iljas Beg at the door. He and Mehmed Haidar had come back from the front. The Czar’s abdication had released them from their oath, and here they were back, brown, proud and strong. The war had done them good. They seemed like people who had had a glimpse of another world, and would carry it in their hearts forever. ‘Ali Khan,’ said Iljas Beg, ‘we must do something. The enemy is at the gates of the city.’
‘Yes, we must defend ourselves.’
‘No, we must attack.’ He went up to the dais and spoke in a loud commanding voice: ‘Mohammedans! I’ll make our town’s position clear just once more. Since the beginning of the revolution the front has fallen to pieces. Russian deserters of all political parties are camping around Baku, armed and lusting for loot. There is only one Mohammedan military formation in town: we, the “Wild Division” Volunteers. We are fewer than the Russians, and we have fewer weapons. The second military formation in our town is the Military Association of the Armenian Nationalist Party Dashnak-Tütün. Stepa Lalai and Andronik are the leaders, and they have approached us. They are forming an army composed of the Armenians living here, and they want to take this army back to Karabagh and Armenia. We have agreed to the formation of this army and their exodus to Armenia. Therefore the Armenians will, together with us, offer an ultimatum to the Russians. We demand that no more Russian soldiers and refugees should be passed through our town. If the Russians reject our ultimatum, we can, together with the Armenians, get what we want by military means. Mohammedans, join the “Wild Division”, take up your arms. The enemy is at our door.’ I listened. It smelt of blood and war. For many days I had practised handling a machine-gun on the parade ground. Now my new knowledge was to be put to use. Mehmed Haidar was standing next to me, playing with his cartridge belt. I turned to him: ‘Come to my house with Iljas Beg after the meeting. Seyd Mustafa is coming too. We’ll have to talk this over.’ He nodded and I went home.
