Ali and Nino

by Kurban Said

  My friends came armed, even Seyd Mustafa wore a dagger in his green belt. Nino prepared the tea. There was a strange silence in us. On the eve of the battle the town was unfamiliar and depressing. People were still walking along the streets, going about their business or just for a walk. But somehow all this seemed unreal and ghostly, as if they already felt that everyday life would soon become absurd.

  ‘Have you got enough weapons?’ asked Iljas Beg.

  ‘Five guns, eight revolvers, one machine-gun and ammunition. And there’s a cellar for the women and children.’

  Nino raised her head. ‘I’m not going into the cellar,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll defend my home with you.’ Her voice sounded hard and firm.

  ‘Nino,’ said Mehmed Haidar quietly, ‘we’ll do the shooting and you’ll dress the wounds.’

  Nino bent her head, her shoulders sagged. ‘Oh God—our streets will become battlefields, the theatre will be the H.Q., soon it will be as impossible to cross Nikolai Street as to go to China. We’ll have to change our politics or conquer an army to be allowed to go to the Lyceum of the Holy Tamar. I can see you creeping on your stomachs through the Governor’s garden, armed to the teeth, and there’ll be a machine-gun near the lake where Ali Khan and I used to meet. We live in a strange town.’

  ‘I’m sure there won’t be any fighting,’ said Iljas Beg. ‘The Russians will accept our ultimatum.”

  Mehmed Haidar laughed grimly. ‘I forgot to tell you that I met Assadullah when I was on my way here. He says the Russians refuse. They demand that we surrender all our weapons. They won’t get mine.’

  ‘Then it’s war,’ said Iljas Beg, ‘For us and our Armenian allies.’

  Nino was silent, looking to the window. Seyd Mustafa adjusted his turban. ‘Allah, Allah,’ he said, ‘I have not been to the front. I’m not as clever as Ali Khan. But I do know the Law. It is a bad thing if Mohammedans have to depend on the loyalty of unbelievers in a fight. In fact it is always bad to depend on anybody. Thus says the Law, and thus is life. Who is the leader of the Armenian troops? Stepa Lalai! I know him. In 1905 his parents were killed by Mohammedans. How can he ever forget that? And I don’t believe that the Armenians will fight with us against the Russians anyway. Who are these Russians? Just rabble, anarchist robbers. Their leader’s name is Stephan Shaumian, and he too is an Armenian. Armenian anarchists and Armenian Nationalists will make friends much quicker than Mohammedan Nationalists and Armenian Nationalists. That is the Mystery of the Blood. There’ll be a rift, as sure as the Koran is always right.’

  ‘Seyd,’ said Nino, ‘there is not only blood, there is also common sense. If the Russians win they won’t treat Stepa Lalai and Andronik very kindly.’

  Mehmed Haidar laughed out loud. ‘Sorry, friends,’ he said, ‘I just thought how we will treat the Armenians if we win. If the Turks should overrun Armenia, surely you cannot imagine us defending it.’

  Iljas Beg was furious: ‘That’s no way to talk or even to think. The Armenian question will be solved very simply: Lalai’s battalions emigrate to Armenia, and their families with them. A year later there won’t be a single Armenian left in Baku. They will have their own country and we will have ours. We’ll simply be two peoples living side by side.’

  ‘Iljas Beg,’ I said, ‘Seyd is right. You forget the Mystery of the Blood. Stepa Lalai’s parents have been killed by Mohammedans, and he would be a knave if he forgot the duty of his blood.’

  ‘Or a politician, Ali Khan, who can govern the call of his blood to save his people from bleeding to death. If he is clever he’ll be on our side, in his and his people’s interest.’ We quarrelled until twilight fell. Then Nino said: ‘Whoever you are, politicians or just men, I hope that in a week’s time you’ll all be here again, safe and sound. Because, if there should be fighting in town …’ She fell silent.

  In the night she was lying beside me, but she did not sleep. Her lips were parted and moist. Silently she stared at the window. I embraced her. She turned to me and asked: ‘Are you going to fight, Ali Khan?’

  ‘Of course, Nino.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Of course.’ Suddenly she took my face into her hands and pressed it to her breast. She kissed me, silently, her eyes wide open. Wild passion gripped her. She was straining against me, full of lust, submission and fear of death. Her face looked as if she were in another world, a world she had to go to alone. Suddenly she fell back, held my head close to her eyes and said, so softly that I could hardly hear her: ‘I will call the child Ali.’ Then she was silent again, her veiled eyes turned to the window. Slender and dainty the old minaret rose in the pale light of the moon. Dark and threatening crouched the shadows of the old fortress wall. From far away came the sound of iron on iron—somebody was sharpening his dagger, and it sounded like a promise. Then the telephone rang. I got up and stumbled through the darkness. Iljas Beg’s voice came through the receiver: ‘The Armenians have joined the Russians. They demand that all Mohammedans surrender their weapons not later than three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. We refuse of course. You’ll be at the machine-gun at the wall, left of Zizianashvili’s Gate. I’m sending you another thirty men. Prepare everything for the defence of the Gate.’ I put the receiver down. Nino was sitting up in bed, staring at me. I took up my dagger and tried its sharp edge.

  ‘What is it, Ali?’

  ‘The enemy is at the gate, Nino.’ I dressed and called the servants. They came, broad-shouldered, strong and clumsy. I gave each of them a gun, then I went down to my father. He was standing in front of the mirror, a servant brushing his Tsherkess coat.

  ‘Where is your position, Ali Khan?’

  ‘At the Zizianashvili Gate.’

  ‘Good. I’m in the hall of the Benevolent Society, on the Staff.’ His sabre rattled, he fingered his moustache. ‘Be brave, Ali. The enemy must not come over the wall. If they reach the Square outside the wall use your machine-gun. Assadullah is bringing in the farmers from the villages, they will attack the enemy from the rear in Nikolai Street.’ He put his revolver into its holster and blinked tiredly. ‘The last boat to Persia sails at eight o’clock. Nino must be sure to go. If the Russians win they will rape all women.’

  I went back to my room. Nino was talking on the telephone. ‘No, Mama,’ I heard her say, ‘I’m staying here. There is really no danger, you know. Thanks, Papa, don’t worry, we’ve got enough food. Yes, thank you. But please don’t worry. I’m not coming, I’m not!’ She raised her voice on the last word, it was a cry. She put the receiver down. ‘You are right, Nino,’ I said, you wouldn’t be safe at your parents’ house either. At eight o’clock the last boat leaves for Persia. Pack your things.’

  She blushed deeply. ‘You’re sending me away, Ali Khan?’

  Never had I seen Nino blush like this. ‘You’ll be safe in Teheran, Nino. If the enemies win they’ll rape all women.’

  She raised her head and said defiantly: ‘They won’t rape me, Ali Khan—not me. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Go to Persia, Nino, please! There’s still time.’

  ‘Stop it,’ she said severely. ‘Ali, I’m terribly afraid, of the enemy, of the battle, of all the terrible things that are going to happen. But I’m staying here. I can’t help you, but I belong to you. I have to stay here, that’s all there is to it.’ That was all. I kissed her eyes and felt very proud. She was a good wife, even when she defied me. I left the house. Dawn was breaking. Dust was in the air. I mounted the wall. My servants were crouching behind the stone battlements, their guns at the ready. Iljas Beg’s thirty men were watching the empty Duma Square. There they were, with their black moustaches and brown faces, clumsy, silent and tense. The machine-gun with its small muzzle looked like a Russian nose, snub and broad. All was quiet around us. From time to time the liaison patrols came running silently along the wall, bringing short messages. Somewhere old men and priests were still trying to negotiate for the miracle of a last minute reconciliation.

  The sun rose, and heat flooded from the le
aden sky to sink into the stones. I looked across to my house. Nino was sitting on the roof, her face turned to the sun. At midday she came to the wall, bringing food and drink. She looked at the machine- gun with frightened curiosity, then she crouched silently in the shade until I sent her home. Now it was one o’clock. From the minaret Seyd Mustafa sang his prayer, plaintive and solemn. Then he joined us, awkwardly dragging his gun behind. He had stuck the Koran into his belt. I looked across to Duma Square, outside the wall. A few people were hurrying across the dust, anxiously bent low, as if in fear of an immediate attack. A veiled woman ran shouting and stumbling after her children, who were playing in the middle of the square. One, two, three. The bells of the Town Hall roared, shattering the silence. And at the same moment, as if these bells had miraculously opened the door to another world, we heard the first shots from the outskirts of the town.

  22

  There was no moon that night. Softly the sailing boat glided over the dull waters of the Caspian Sea. Little sprays of foam splashed us from time to time, bitter and salty. Like the wings of a huge bird the black sail was spread out above us. I was lying on the wet planks of the boat, swathed in sheepskins. The boatman, a Tekine, had his broad beardless face turned towards the stars. I raised my head, and my hand touched the curly fur. ‘Seyd Mustafa?’ I asked. His pock-marked face bent over me. The red stones of his rosary were gliding through his fingers … as if his hand, so well cared for, was playing with drops of blood. ‘I am here, Ali Khan, just lie quietly,’ he said. I saw the tears in his eyes and sat up. ‘Mehmed Haider is dead,’ I said, ‘I saw his body in Nikolai Street. They had cut off his nose and his ears.’

  Seyd’s face turned to me: ‘The Russians came from Bailov and surrounded the Esplanade. You just brushed them off Duma Square.’

  ‘Yes?’ I remembered, ‘and then Assadullah came and gave the order to attack. We came forward with bayonets and daggers. You sang the prayer “Ya sin.” ’

  ‘And you—you drank the enemies’ blood. Do you know who stood at the corner of Ashoum? The whole family of the Nachararyans. They’re wiped out.’

  ‘They’re wiped out,’ I repeated. ‘I had eight machine-guns on the roof of Ashoum House. We were masters of the whole quarter.’

  Seyd Mustafa rubbed his brow. His face looked as if strewn with ashes: ‘Up there the rattling went on all day. Some one said you were dead. Nino heard it, but did not say a word. She sat in her room, silent. And the machine-guns rattled. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands and cried: “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” and the machine-guns rattled. Then we ran out of ammunition, but the enemy did not know that. They thought it was a trap. Musa Nagi is dead, too. Lalai strangled him.’ There was nothing I could say. The Tekine from the Red Sand Desert stared at the sky. His many-coloured silk kaftan fluttered in the breeze. Seyd said: ‘I heard you were in the skirmish at the Zizianashvili Gate. Were you? I was on the other side of the wall.’

  ‘I was. There was a black leather jacket. I pierced it with my dagger and it turned red. My cousin Aishe is dead, too.’ The sea was like a mirror, the boat smelt of tar. It had no name, and it floated along the nameless coast of the Red Sand Desert. Seyd said softly: ‘We put on shrouds, we of the Mosque. Then we took our daggers and fell on the enemy. Most of us are dead. But God did not let me die. Iljas too is alive, hiding in the country. How they looted your house! Not one carpet, not one piece of furniture, no crockery is left. Just the bare walls.’ I closed my eyes. I was just one burning pain. I saw carts crammed with dead bodies, and Nino carrying a bundle in the dark, on the oil-saturated shore of Bibi-Eibat. Then the boat with the man from the desert. The tower of the Island of Nargin shedding its light. The town disappeared in the dark. The black oil derricks looked like grim prison guards. And now I was lying here, swathed in sheepskins, a throbbing pain tearing my chest. I rose. Nino was lying in the shade of a little piece of sailcloth. Her face was narrow and very pale. I took her cold hand and felt her fingers trembling slightly. Behind us my father was sitting next to the boatman. I heard a sentence here and there: ‘… so you really think that in the Oasis Tshardshui one can change the colour of one’s eyes at will?’

  ‘Yes, Khan. There is only one place in the world where one can do that—the Oasis Tshardshui. A holy man made a prophesy …’

  ‘Nino,’ I said, ‘my father is having a conversation about the miracles of the Oasis Tshardshui. That’s the way to be if one has to live in this world.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Nino, ‘I can’t Ali Khan, the dust on the street was red with blood.’ She covered her face with her hands and cried soundlessly. Her shoulders were trembling. … I sat beside her, thinking of Duma Square outside the great wall, of Mehmed Haidar, lying dead in Nikolai Street—the same street he had walked all these years going to school—and of the black leather jacket, that had suddenly turned red. It hurt to be alive. My father’s voice sounded as if from afar: ‘There are serpents on the Island of Tsheleken?’

  ‘Yes, Khan, immensely long, poisonous snakes … but no human eye has ever seen them. Only one holy man from the Oasis of Merv told once …’ I could not stand it any longer. I went up to the steering wheel and said: ‘Father, Asia is dead, our friends are dead, and we are exiles. God’s anger is upon us, and you talk of the serpents on the Island of Tsheleken.’ My father’s face was serene. He leaned against the little mast and looked at me for a long time: ‘Asia is not dead. Its borders only have changed, changed forever. Baku is now Europe. And that is not just a coincidence. There were no Asiatics left in Baku any longer.’

  ‘Father, for three days I have defended Asia with machine-gun, bayonet and dagger.’

  ‘You are a brave man, Ali Khan. But what is bravery? Europeans are brave too. You and all the men who fought with you—you are not Asiatics any more. I do not hate Europe. I am indifferent to it. You hate it, because there is something European in you. You went to a Russian school, you have learnt Latin, you have a European wife. How can you still be an Asiatic? If you had won, you yourself would have introduced Europe in Baku, even without realising it, or intending to. It does not really matter whether we or the Russians build the new factories and highways. Things could not go on as they were. Being a good Asiatic does not mean killing many enemies, wildly lusting for blood.’

  ‘Then what is being a good Asiatic?’

  ‘You are half European, Ali Khan, that is why you ask this. I cannot explain it to you, because you see the visible things in life only. Your face is turned towards the earth. That is why your defeat pains you, and why you show it.’ My father fell silent, his eyes looked withdrawn. He knew more than this our world of reality: he was, like all older people in Baku and in Persia, aware of another world, into which he could withdraw, and where he was unassailable. I had only a vague feeling of this realm of otherworldly peace, where one could bury friends, and yet talk to a boatman about the miracles of the Island of Tshardshui. I knocked at the door of this world, but I was not admitted. I was too involved in our painful reality. So I was not an Asiatic any more. No one blamed me for it, but they all seemed to know it. I longed to be at home again, in Asia’s world of dreams, but I had become a stranger. Alone I stood in the boat, looking into the black mirror that was the sea. Mehmed Haidar is dead, Aishe is dead, our house is destroyed. And I was sailing in a little boat to the land of the Shah, to the great quiet that is Persia. Suddenly Nino stood beside me. ‘Persia’, she said, ‘what are we going to do there?’

  ‘We’ll rest.’

  ‘Yes, rest—I want to sleep, Ali Khan, for a month or a year. I want to sleep in a garden full of green trees. And there must be no shooting.’

  ‘You’re coming to the right country. Persia has been asleep for a thousand years, and not many shots are fired there.’ We went on deck. Nino fell asleep at once. I lay awake for a long time, looking at Seyd’s silhouette, the drops of blood in his fingers. He was praying. He knew the hidden world, the world that begins where reality ends. The sun was rising
, and behind it was Persia. We could feel its breath while we were eating fish and drinking water, crouching on the boat’s planks. The wild Tekine was talking to my father, looking at me indifferently, as if I were just a thing.

  On the evening of the fourth day we saw a yellow strip on the horizon. It looked like a cloud, but it was Persia. The strip broadened. I saw clay huts and poor moorings. That was Enseli—the Shah’s port. We dropped anchor on a mouldy wooden pier. A man wearing a morning coat came to meet us. On his high sheepskin hat shone the Silver Lion, his foot raised, the Rising Sun behind him. Two marine policemen strolled behind the official, barefoot and in rags. He looked at us with big round eyes and said: ‘I greet you as a child greets the first rays of the sun on the day of his birth. Have you got documents?’