by Kurban Said
I stood at the window. Suddenly I was overcome by a new and irresistible feeling—the cry gripped my soul with its warning, and I was filled with the desire for utter submission. I saw the drops of blood in the dust of the street, and I heard the sound of the tambourine, calling and liberating. This was it: the Mystery of the Unseen, the Gate of Sorrow, that leads to the Grace of the Redeemer. I pressed my lips together, and my hands gripped the windowsill. I saw the Hand of Fatima, and all the visible world sank away from me. Once more I heard the hollow sound of the drum—then the rhythm of the wild cries was in me. I had become part of the crowd. I walked with the broad-shouldered men, and my fists hammered against my naked breast. Later I sensed the cool darkness of a mosque around me, and heard the Imam’s plaintive call. Someone put a heavy chain into my hand, and I felt the burning pain on my back. Hours passed. A wide square lay in front of me, and from my throat came wild and joyous, the old cry: ‘Shah-ssé … Wah-ssé …’ A dervish with a crushed face stood in front of me. His ribs showed under the dry skin. The thousand eyes of the praying crowd were staring ahead in a trance, and the crowd was singing. Across the square walked a horse, carrying a bloodstained saddle, the horse of the young Hussein. The dervish with the crushed face gave a sudden yell, high-pitched and long drawn out. His copper bowl flew aside, and he threw himself under the horse’s hooves. I stumbled. Heavy fists drummed against the naked breast. ‘Shah-ssé … Wah-ssé …’ the crowd cried out, rejoicing. A man was carried past, his white robe bespattered with blood. From afar innumerable torches came to join us in the dark, and I had to follow them. Then I was sitting in the courtyard of a mosque again, and the people round me were wearing high round caps, and their eyes were full of tears. Some one sang the Song of the Young Hussein, and choked in sudden sorrow. I rose. The crowd was flowing back. The night was cool. We passed the Administration Buildings, black flags flying on the masts on the roofs. The endless row of torches was like a river, mirroring the stars. The roofs were crowded to capacity. Shrouded figures peered round corners. The Consulate’s gates were guarded by soldiers, their bayonets at the ready. A camel caravan passed the rows of figures sunk in prayer. Plaintive cries rose, women fell to the ground, their limbs jerking in the pale moonlight. The Holy Young Man’s family sat in sedan chairs, carried by camels. Behind them, on a black horse, rode the grim Khalif Jesid, his face covered by a Saracen visor—the Holy Hussein’s murderer. When he came into view stones flew across the square, just missing his visor. He rode faster and hid in the courtyard of the Exhibition Hall of Nasreddin Shah. Tomorrow the Passion Play of the Holy Hussein would begin.
We came to the Diamond Porch of the Emperor’s Palace—black flags flying at half mast there too. The Bahadurs, the Palace Guard, were standing with bowed heads, wearing black mourning crêpe. The Emperor was not in residence, but staying in his Summer Palace in Baghashah. The crowd flowed into Ala’ed Dawleh Street, and suddenly I was alone on dark Cannon Square. The muzzles of the rusty guns looked at me indifferently. My body hurt, as if torn by a thousand strokes with the whip. I touched my shoulder and felt a thick crust of blood. The square flickered before my eyes. When it steadied again I saw an empty coach. The coachman looked at me with understanding and pity. ‘Take a bit of pigeons’ dung and mix it with oil, then put it on the wounds. That is very good,’ he said, obviously an expert. I fell on the cushions, feeling very tired. ‘To Shimran,’ I cried, ‘to the House of Shirvanshir.’ The coachman cracked his whip and we drove through the rough uneven streets. From time to time he turned around and said: ‘You must be a very pious man. Pray for me too, please. I can’t do it myself, I have no time, I must work. My name is Sorhab Jussuf.’
Tears were streaming down Nino’s face. She was sitting on the divan, her hands folded helplessly, crying without hiding her face. Her mouth was open, the corners drawn down, deep creases between cheeks and nose. She sobbed just once, her little body was trembling. She did not say a word, but bright teardrops fell from her lashes, on her cheeks, disintegrating on her defenceless face. I stood before her, torn by the force of her sorrow. She did not move, did not wipe off her tears, her lips trembled like leaves in the autumn wind. I took her hands and they were cold, lifeless and withdrawn. I kissed her wet eyes, and she looked at me absently, without understanding. ‘Nino,’ I cried, ‘Nino—what is it?’ She raised her hand to the mouth, as if to close it. When she dropped it again I could see clearly her toothmarks on the back of it.
‘I hate you, Ali Khan.’ Her voice sounded deeply frightened.
‘Nino—are you ill?’
‘No, I hate you.’ She drew her lower lip between her teeth, and her eyes were the eyes of a hurt child. She looked with horror at my tattered clothes and my raw red naked shoulders.
‘What is it, Nino?’
‘I hate you.’ She crawled into the corner of the divan, drew her legs up and put her chin on her knees. Her tears had stopped. She looked at me with sad eyes, quiet, like a stranger.
‘What have I done, Nino?’
‘You have showed me your soul, Ali Khan.’ She spoke monotonously, softly, as if in a dream. ‘I was at my parents’ house. We were having tea, and the Dutch Consul invited us to his house on Cannon Square. He was going to show us the most barbaric rites of the Orient. We stood at the window, and the stream of fanatics passed underneath. I heard the tambourine, saw the wild faces and felt sick. “An orgy of flagellantism,” said the Consul, and closed the windows, because the stink of sweat and dirt came in from the street. Suddenly we heard a wild cry and a dervish threw himself under a horse’s hooves. And then— then the Consul stretched out his hand and said: “Isn’t that—” he didn’t finish the sentence. I looked where he pointed and saw a native beating his breast and whipping his back amongst all those madmen. And that native was you, Ali Khan! I was ashamed, ashamed to death to be the wife of a fanatical barbarian. I could see all your movements and felt the Consul’s pitying glance. I believe we had tea later, or dinner. I can’t remember. I just managed to stay on my feet, for I had suddenly seen the abyss dividing us. Ali Khan, the Young Hussein has destroyed our happiness. I see you as a fanatic barbarian, and I’ll always see you like that.’ She sat there, silent, broken and suffering, because I had tried to find home and peace with the unseen.
‘What now, Nino?’
‘I don’t know. We can never be happy again. I want to go away—to a place where I can look you in the face again, and not see the madman of Cannon Square. Let me go, Ali Khan.’
‘Go where, Nino?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ her fingers touched my wounded back. ‘Why, oh why did you do it?’
‘I did it for you, Nino, but you wouldn’t understand that.’
‘No,’ she said disconsolately, ‘I want to go away. I’m so tired, Ali Khan. Asia is disgusting.’
‘Do you love me?’
‘Yes,’ she said in despair, and let her hands fall into her lap. I took her into my arms and carried her into the bedroom. I undressed her, and she spoke confusedly in feverish terror.
‘Nino,’ I said, ‘just a few more weeks, and then we’ll go home to Baku.’
She nodded tiredly and closed her eyes. Overcome with sleep she took my hand and pressed it against her ribs. I sat a long time like that, feeling her heart beating against my palm. Then I too undressed and lay down next to her. Her body was warm, and she lay there like a child, on her left side, knees drawn up, her head hidden under the cover.
She woke up early, leapt over me and ran into the bathroom. There she took a long time washing and splashing about, but would not let me come in. … Then she came out, avoiding my eyes. She carried a little bowl containing some salve. Guiltily she treated my back with it. ‘You should have beaten me, Ali Khan,’ she said, like a very good little girl.
‘I couldn’t. I had beaten myself all day long, and hadn’t any strength left.’
She put the salve away, and the eunuch brought the tea. She drank hastily and looked out into the gar
den, silent and embarrassed. Suddenly she looked firmly into my eyes and said: ‘It’s no use, Ali Khan. I hate you, and I will go on hating you as long as we’re in Persia. I can’t help it.’ We rose, went out into the garden and sat silently by the fountain. The peacock paraded before us, and my father’s coach drove noisily into the courtyard of the men’s part of the house. Then Nino looked at me sideways and said timidly: ‘I can throw dice even with a man I hate.’ I fetched the Nardy board, and sadly and dispiritedly we started throwing dice. Then we bent over the fountain’s rim and looked at our faces mirrored in the water. Nino dipped her hand in, and our images were distorted by little ripples. ‘Don’t be so sad, Ali Khan. It’s not you I hate, it’s this strange country and its strange people. It will pass as soon as we’re home again, and as soon as …’ She put her face on the water for a moment. When she raised her face again clear drops ran down her cheeks to the chin: ‘I’m sure it will be a boy—but it’s still seven months to go,’ she finished, and looked a little proud and superior. So now our fate depended on the regiments marching over the sunglazed plain of Azerbeidshan to the old town of Baku, the town that already suffered enemy occupation and perpetual torture by the oil derricks. I dried Nino’s face and kissed her cool cheeks. And she smiled. Then the drums of Holy Hussein called again from afar. I grabbed Nino’s hand, dragged her quickly into the house, and put the strongest needle on the gramophone. A loud voice started to shout deafeningly the ‘Gold’ aria from Gounod’s ‘Faust’. It was surely the loudest record ever, and while Nino clung to me trembling with fright the immense bass drowned the ancient cry ‘Shah-ssé—Wah-ssé.…’
27
During the first days of Persia’s autumn, Enver Bey’s army had marched in to occupy Baku—thus ran the news through bazaars, tea houses and Ministries. The town’s last Russian defenders landed in the ports of Persia and Turkestan, starved and cut off from their units. They told of the red flag with the white half-moon fluttering victoriously on the old citadel. Arslan Aga published highly coloured reports in Teheran’s newspapers of the Turks marching in, and uncle Assad es Saltaneh banned these newspapers, because he thought he was doing the English a favour by doing so, and because he hated the Turks. My father went to see the Prime Minister, and after some hesitation the Prime Minister allowed the shipping line between Baku and Persia to be re-opened. We travelled to Enseli, and the steamboat Nasreddin took the crowd of refugees, us amongst them, to their liberated home town.
Soldiers with high fur caps stood on Baku’s pier. Iljas Beg saluted us, raising his sword, and the Turkish Colonel made a speech, trying to make his soft Stamboul-Turkish sound as much as possible like our own rough dialect. We came to our completely destroyed and raided house, and for days and weeks on end Nino became nothing but a housewife. She had long discussions with carpenters, rooted about in furniture shops, and, frowning with concentration, took measurements of our rooms. She had mysterious sessions with architects, and our house became filled with workmen’s noises and the smell of paint, wood and plaster. And in the middle of this domestic hullabaloo was Nino, radiant and conscious of her responsibility, for she had carte blanche for the selection of furniture, wallpaper, and decoration in general. In the evening she reported, ashamed but happy: ‘Don’t be angry with your Nino, Ali. I have ordered beds, real beds instead of divans. The wallpaper will be light coloured, and we’ll have fitted carpets on the floor. The nursery is going to be all in white. Everything will be quite, quite different from the Persian harem.’ She put her arms round my neck and rubbed her face against my cheek, for she had a bad conscience. Then she turned her head to the side, drew her little tongue across her lips and tried to reach the tip of her nose with it. She always did that when she was facing a difficult situation, exams, doctors or funerals. I thought of Hussein’s Night, and let her have her way, though it hurt my feelings that I had to step on carpets with my shod feet, and to sit at a European table. The flat roof with the view over the desert was all that was left to me. Nino had not proposed any structural alterations there. Mortar dust and noises filled the house.
I sat on the roof with my father, turned my head to the side, let my tongue glide across my lips the way Nino did, and felt that I looked guilty. My father said gently: ‘Well—that’s how it is, Ali Khan. The house is the woman’s domain. Nino has been very good in Persia, even though it was not at all easy for her. Now it’s your turn. Don’t forget what I told you: Baku is now part of Europe. For ever! The cool darkness of the rooms and the red carpets on the wall belong to Persia.’
‘And you, father?’
‘I too belong to Persia, and I’ll go there as soon as I have seen your child. I’ll live in our house in Shimran, and wait until even there white walls and beds will be introduced.’
‘I have to stay here, father.’
He nodded seriously. ‘I know. You love this town, and Nino loves Europe. But I don’t like our new flag, and the noise of the new state, nor the smell of godlessness that hangs over the town.’ He looked down quietly, and suddenly seemed very like his brother, Assad es Saltaneh: ‘I’m an old man, Ali Khan. I can’t stand all these new things. You are young and brave, you must stay here, and the country of Azerbeidshan will need you.’
When twilight fell I was strolling around the streets of our town. Turkish patrols were standing at the corners, hard, upright and deadpan. I spoke to the officers, and they told me of Stamboul’s mosques and the summer nights of Tatly-su. The new flag was fluttering on the old Governor’s Palace, and Parliament assembled in our school. The old town seemed to have turned its everyday life into a fancy dress party. Feth Ali Khan, the solicitor, was the new Prime Minister, and made laws and gave orders. Mirza Assadullah, the brother of that Assadullah who wanted to kill all Russians, was Foreign Minister and signed treaties with our neighbouring countries. I became enthusiastic about the transformation of our country. The unaccustomed feeling of political independence stirred me profoundly, and I loved the new coat of arms, the uniforms and laws. For the first time in my life I was really at home in my own country. The Russians slunk timidly past me, and my former teachers saluted me reverently. In the City Club the orchestra played native songs all through the evening, we could keep our hats on, and Iljas Beg and I entertained the Turkish officers there, who were either coming from or going to the front. They told us of the siege of Baghdad, and the trek through the Sinai desert. They knew Tripolis’ sand dunes, Galicia’s muddy lanes and the snow storms in Armenia’s mountains. They drank champagne, blatantly disregarding the Law of the Prophet, and spoke of Enver and the coming of the Empire of Turan, in which all people of Turkish blood would be united. I drank in their words full of wonder and reverence, for all this was unreal and like a shadow, like a beautiful unforgettable dream.
Then came the day of the big parade. Military bands marched through the town. The Pasha, his breast covered with decorations, rode on his steed along the rows of soldiers and saluted the new flag. We were full of pride and gratitude, forgot all differences between Shiites and Sunnites, and would have been prepared to kiss the Pasha’s lean hand and to die for the Osman Khalif. Seyd Mustafa alone stood apart from the crowd, his face expressing hate and contempt. He had seen a Bulgarian military cross amongst all the stars and half moons covering the Pasha’s tunic, and he resented deeply this symbol of an alien creed on a Muslim’s breast.
After the parade Iljas, Seyd and I sat on the Esplanade, where autumn leaves were fluttering from the trees. My friends were quarrelling violently about the basic ideas of the new state. From the campaigns and battles at Gandsha, from talks with Young Turk officers, and from his war experiences, Iljas Beg had become convinced that the only way our country could be saved from another Russian invasion was to carry out European reforms as quickly as possible. ‘I say it is possible to build forts and roads, introduce reforms, and still stay a good Mohammedan!’ he cried boisterously. Seyd’s brow was furrowed and his eyes tired:
‘Take it just one ste
p further, Iljas Beg,’ he said, coolly, ‘say it is possible to drink wine, eat pork and yet stay a good Mohammedan. The Europeans have discovered long ago that wine is good for you, and that pork is nourishing. Of course one may stay a good Mohammedan, only the Archangel at the Gate of Paradise will not believe that.’
Iljas laughed: ‘Surely there’s a difference between marching on parade and eating pork.’
‘But not between eating pork and drinking wine. The Turkish officers drink wine quite openly, and they have crosses pinned to their uniforms.’
I was listening to my friends. ‘Seyd,’ I asked, ‘is it possible to be a good Mohammedan, and yet to sleep in beds and eat with knife and fork?’
Seyd’s smile was tender. ‘You will always be a good Mohammedan. I saw you on the day of Moharram.’ I was silent. Iljas Beg pushed his cap back.
‘Is it true that your house will be quite European, with modern furniture and light coloured wallpaper?’
‘Yes, that is true, Iljas Beg.’
‘That’s good,’ he said, decidedly. ‘We are now a Capital. Foreign Consuls will come to our country. We’ll need houses where we can receive them, and we’ll have to have ladies of our own who can talk to the diplomats’ wives. You have exactly the right kind of wife, Ali Khan, and you’re getting the right kind of house. You should work in the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.’
