by Ali Bader
The intimacy between Haidar and Tahira was at its strongest during this period. They would spend whole mornings hanging out on Tehran’s streets, either strolling on foot or cruising in Tahira’s car. The time they spent together allowed Ismail al-Tabtabaei to turn his attention again to his business, instead of being the constant companion of his daughter. Haidar therefore became important not only for the daughter but also for the father’s business. As far as Tahira and Haidar were concerned, their outings represented almost a sacred ritual. They would start their walks from north of Reza Pahlavi Street, with its congested traffic, cars and motorcycles. They would then move on to the middle section of the street where the statue of the sage, Al-Firdawsi, the writer of the epic Shahnameh, stood. They would walk in front of the great gate to Tehran University which was designed by the French architect Godard as an extension of the Dar al-Funun, itself established by the first Iranian reformer of the nineteenth century, Mirza Taqi Khan Amir Kabir, in an attempt to import Western science into Iran. They would also go to the Talar-e Rudaki theatre, which was built in the shape of a tulip and named after the Persian poet Abu Abdullah Jafar Rudaki of the fourth century of the Hijra calendar.
It was at this theatre that Haidar Salman gave a concert a year after his marriage to Tahira, thanks to the good offices of the influential merchant Ismail al-Tabtabaei. Haidar gave a solo performance of Henri Vieuxtemps’ Opus 4 in D Minor, which he played with absolute brilliance, precise phrasing, soaring melody and unparalleled genius, earning him the admiration of Tehran’s upper echelons and the approbation of the aristocratic families who attended the concert.
Haidar Salman wrote several letters to Farida at this time, telling her of his adventures and his exploration of that beautiful city. Tahira was his constant companion on these trips. His letters overflowed with a marked fascination with mosque architecture, sparkling blue domes and gilded minarets. He was captivated by silver and wooden decorative patterns and mirror-encrusted ceilings, which were also found in wealthy homes. But the question that perplexed me was whether Haidar Salman became a true Muslim in his heart. Or was he just a Ricardo Reis, who believed in Greek gods despite living in Christian Europe? It was certain that Tahira was filled with instinctive religious faith and wholehearted acceptance of Shia rituals. But was his own complete identification with the persona of Haidar Salman motivated by religion or by art? He later made countless comparisons between elevated art, on the one hand, and the visual and graphic vulgarity of politico-religious propaganda, based on total superficiality and crudity, on the other.
I don’t know why, but from the time he arrived in Tehran he insisted on talking about a painting by Andy Warhol. This painting by the master of kitsch showed Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi sitting on the throne, the very throne that had been stolen by Nader Shah when he invaded India. Known as the ‘Peacock Throne’ and inlaid with thousands of jewels and precious stones, it was the seat of Iran’s emperors in coronations and formal ceremonies. There the Shah sat, in Warhol’s painting, wearing his Shah-of-Shah’s suit and giving his distinctive look. The emperor sat on the plundered Peacock Throne itself, wearing the crown of former emperors and surrounded by their jewels and gold objects. But at that time I wasn’t aware of all those things. It was clear that he made frequent comparisons involving art. This tendency may be traced to his first persona when he first visited Moscow and stood in trepidation and apprehension in front of the Russian conductor, waiting to hear the advice of the bearded man whose face was as red as wine, urging him to find in his people the inspiration he sought for his art. It may also be traced back to the statement made by the local Muslim broadcaster with his dark, Jewish-looking face, who complimented him on embracing classical art. But the most significant change no doubt happened later in the sphere of politics, with the increased use of kitsch as a tool of political propaganda both in Tehran and Baghdad.
The key question that preoccupied me at that time was when had Haidar married Tahira Ismail al-Tabtabaei, for he never mentioned the date in his letters. There was a letter from a later date, however, which he sent while on one of his trips to Europe, and where he told Farida that he’d married Tahira and had had a son Hussein from her. This question puzzled me until Faris and I went to Tehran.
Faris Hassan and I landed at Tehran Airport on 3 May 2006. The Elburz Mountains were still snow-capped despite the warmth of spring. The airport was very busy. We left the terminal building at night, took a cab and went straight to the city centre. At that hour, it was virtually impossible to find a room at any cheap hotel or khan, so I asked the driver to go straight to Sarjashma. I had no idea why I told him that we were staying there. I imagined that the Sarjashma Hotel, where Haidar Salman had stayed in the fifties, was located in the Sarjashma neighbourhood, and had no idea that there was also a popular district in the southern and more deprived part of Tehran with the same name. When we got out of the cab, of course we didn’t find the hotel we were looking for. Instead, we found a number of cheap hotels and small khans all along the main street. We started knocking on the doors of the hotels and khans, one after the other, but we received only rejections or apologies. Because our hair was dishevelled, our clothes creased and our faces sullen, our appearance didn’t encourage anyone to offer us a room.
After much trouble we found an extremely shabby hotel, barely adequate as a stable or barn. Still, we slept in clean but uncomfortable beds. The room lacked furniture and the toilets and bathrooms were communal. The place was also extremely noisy. When the sunbeams began to penetrate the room, I woke Faris. After washing our faces and brushing our teeth, we picked up our bags, paid the bill and left.
We walked along the street opposite the old hotel. In the middle of the large square, a very tall and bearded policeman stood directing the cars, bicycles and motorcycles ridden by turbaned clerics. Around the square were shops selling spices, nuts and groceries, in addition to barbershops, traditional bone-setters, small restaurants and bookshops. Tehran in its glorious beauty represented the Eastern city par excellence. Women wore the chador, men strolled peacefully through bazaars, chickens pecked at the grain in the rubbish and cows looked in the grass for watermelon rinds. At the corner of Old Zorkhana Street, men as hefty as Sumo wrestlers appeared.
Haidar Salman’s letters proved to be my guide to the city. My task was to find specific information concerning his residence in Tehran, both in the fifties, when he arrived from Moscow for the first time and in the eighties, when he was expelled back to the city as an Iranian subject. Despite this, I was as charmed by the city as he had been. Most amazing for me were the faces of people in that oriental, impoverished neighbourhood, for they seemed to be identical copies of the faces of the Iranian poor as depicted by Sadeq Hedayat in his fiction and the characters of Bozorg Alavi in his novel Her Eyes. Our curiosity led us to bookshops, where we found the works of Mahmoud Dowlatabadi, considered the Naguib Mahfouz of Persian literature, and of Forough Farokhzad, who was in many ways similar to Ghada al-Samman. We also came across the plays of Reza Burhani and the works of Saeed Sultanpour, who was executed by Khomeini and whose banned books were only released after the latter’s death.
The streets of south Tehran were teeming that day. Faris suggested that we dine at Khanzad restaurant, where Hekmat Aziz had worked, and from there head north. The restaurant stood on Vali Al-Asr Street, which, in his letters from the fifties, Haidar Salman had called Pahlavi Street. The street was, as he had described it, extremely long. It stretched as far as the eye could see, from the south of Tehran to its north. Along the sides of the street were ancient Qajar trees with their huge trunks, as well as modern buildings, hotels, museums, cafés and restaurants. Women’s attire ranged from the chador in the south to Western clothes in the north, where they paraded with their colourful headscarves, jeans and high boots, and dragged little puppies by gold chains around their necks. The restaurant occupied the wide pavement of a street that was flanked by ancient trees. Dewdrops trickled from the
leaves onto the white stones, and grass sprouted from the cracks in the pavement.
As we sat at a table outside, we felt the cold breeze blowing. At that moment, a blonde woman of about thirty walked past, wearing a loose scarf on her head and a pair of tight jeans. A police car suddenly stopped beside her. A bearded policeman and a policewoman in a chador got out. A heated discussion ensued among the three of them. The woman spoke loudly to the policeman. The policewoman came up to her and tried to drag her into the car, but the woman deflected her and screamed. Then, all of a sudden, she turned around and tried to run. The policewoman, however, took hold of her and, with the help of the policeman, dragged her by force into the car, slamming the door shut.
The north of Tehran was completely different. There were posh hotels, foreign restaurants and modern villas, which were hidden by walls and surrounded by large gardens that reflected extraordinary wealth. Their inhabitants were Iranian technocrats, high-ranking state officials, wealthy merchants, businessmen, engineers, doctors, writers and publishers, who were constantly travelling to the United States and Europe. In this area the women didn’t wear the chador at all, but went about in full makeup and elegant clothes.
We took rooms at the Siren Hotel. As soon as we’d dropped off our suitcases, we rushed out, took a cab and headed for the city centre. We wanted to visit the grand bazaar because a man there called Bahzad had been connected with Haidar Salman and his father-in-law. At the bazaar, we sat and stared at people’s faces until the prayers at the mosque were over. White birds flew in the blue sky and perched on the domes of the great bazaar. The vaulted arcades were lively and vibrant with faces and cheap outfits. The faces of the men were bronzed and wrinkled while those of the women were beautiful as they chatted nonchalantly. Everywhere were religious posters bearing invocations such as ‘Ya Fatima’, ‘Abul Fazl al-Abbas’ or ‘Ya Hussein’. These were placed on the façades of the shops that sold women’s clothes, on the city’s public and private transport system, on restaurants and, of course, on mosques and religious schools.
After meeting with many people who’d known Haidar, Tahira, or Ismail al-Tabtabaei, we were sure that he’d married Tahira in Tehran. But when did he go back to Baghdad? Everybody confirmed that it was after the July 1958 revolution, when Abdel Karim Qasim took power in Iraq. But the date of his return remains uncertain. That he was exultant at the Iraqi revolution, which overthrew the king, was clear from a letter he’d sent Farida from Moscow during his trip there with Tahira and Hussein.
Nonetheless, several people categorically affirmed to us during our visit to Baghdad in 2006 that he’d been living in Al-Karradah neighbourhood immediately following the revolution. He’d lived in a beautiful brick house surrounded by a small garden near Saint Raphael church and opposite the nuns’ hospital that had been built in the sixties. It was a relatively old house, overlooking the Tigris from the back and Al-Karradah Street from the front. The street, which boasted numerous hotels, nightclubs, bars, bookshops, stores and markets, was fast becoming the most important commercial and cultural centre in Baghdad.
It is clear that during this period Haidar Salman went back to music with a passion. He actually became very famous, especially among the cultured elite, a class that established itself after the revolution. He gave concerts in venues that differed markedly from the halls where he’d performed in the past. His new audiences consisted mainly of middle-class communist families, a group that had supported the revolution and come to prominence during that era. This new class was also radically different from the aristocracy, which had been eradicated by the revolution. It wished to create its own cultural, political and social symbols and to present them as viable alternatives to the former aristocracy. As a result, an important association of artists, comprising sculptors, architects and musicians, was created in support of the revolution.
Accompanied by a large ensemble under the direction of Russian conductor Vladimir Glepov, Haidar Salman gave concerts not only in Baghdad but also in various world capitals, particularly Moscow and Prague. These two cities, which he absolutely loved, represented turning points in his life. It was there that he formed relationships with two musicians. One was Sergei Oistrakh who, together with Kakeh Hameh, accompanied him to the airport in Moscow. The other was Karl Baruch, the Czech composer who later escaped from Prague to New York. Both gave him enormous help in his difficulties, especially by facilitating his correspondence with Farida, for it was not possible for him at that time, or in fact at any other, to send a letter or even a piece of paper from Baghdad to Jerusalem. So he used to send his letters to these two foreign musicians, the Russian and the Czech, and they in turn would forward them to her address in Jerusalem.
A couple of important pieces of news were published in Baghdad’s papers. The first, published in Al-Jumhuriya in 1960, stated that the composer Haidar Salman had travelled to Moscow for one year to study conducting and composing at the Moscow Conservatory. The second appeared in Sawt al-Ahrar in 1961, stating that the leftist composer Haidar Salman had won the Queen of Belgium’s violin prize, and the Queen had handed out medals to the winners at a huge celebration.
This proves beyond doubt that Haidar Salman was living a totally new lifestyle during this period. His life was no longer as unsettled as it had been. Nor did he give himself up totally to dancing, partying or endless affairs with beautiful women as he had done in the past. His life had become highly focused and organized. He wrote a letter to Farida dated 1959 in which he mentioned that musical inspiration would often hit him suddenly while in the street, in his car or at the cinema. It would sometimes strike him during heated political discussions with friends and, when he went home, he would note down his ideas. In another more detailed letter, he once spoke of leaving the house one winter morning when it had been pouring with rain, and the silent, empty Nation Square was drenched. Baghdad was looking beautiful with the wet balustrades of its bridges and the sight of coats and umbrellas. When the Baghdad clock struck seven in the morning, he went back to his room, threw off his wet coat, sat by the fireplace and began to compose a piece of music. We naturally don’t know the genre of the piece that he composed, particularly because, starting from this period, Haidar Salman underwent a radical political and cultural transformation. Without a doubt, he must have experienced a profound shock, and his general outlook must have been deeply affected. In another letter to Farida, he expressed the feeling that the world around him had changed. It was though he was on an intense inner journey. Pure colours had been replaced by opaque counterparts. A new state of spiritual revelation had overtaken his whole being.
This letter brought to mind the elements of revelation and visionary insight that characterized the second personality of Tobacco Shop. I was personally astonished to see his new persona come to life. His complete identification with that character seemed to me almost ‘diabolical’, for it showed that he had discovered himself almost totally and completely. Through constant training and continued creativity, he was no longer playing a part but had become the new persona.
We also need to discuss the major changes that were happening to him.
It is well known that after the revolution, Haidar Salman began to visit Hekmat Aziz’s house on a regular basis. Hekmat was his revolutionary friend that he had got to know at the Khanzad restaurant in Tehran. He’d returned after the revolution and was living in a beautiful house shaded by tall trees in Al-Adhamiyah. Writers and musicians frequently visited him there. Jawad Salim, the famous sculptor, was often there together with his retinue, which in those days was made up of young artists of both genders, fans of his art, the poet Boland al-Haidari, Hussein Murdan, the dancer Afifa Eskandar, the artist Lorna Salim and several musicians including a few Russians who lived in Baghdad after the revolution and who taught music or painting at the musical academies or institutes of fine art. Some were Polish and had immigrated to Iraq during and after World War II. They would all meet at Hekmat Aziz’s house, sit near a small firep
lace and revel in its seductive warmth. In a state of great euphoria, they would grill chops on this beautiful fire, one at a time. Hekmat’s wife, Widad, a Turkmen from the north of Iraq, would offer them glasses of cold beer which they would clink together merrily and noisily. They would eat and drink, totally absorbed in heated discussions and loud laughter. Those meetings generally ended with poetry readings, musical interludes or card games, of which Haidar became very fond.
But life didn’t always follow this exciting rhythm. The first year of the revolution was happy to some extent because a decisive victory had been achieved. But the euphoria of victory masked huge atrocities. Haidar Salman might have turned a blind eye to many violent scenes that accompanied the revolution, such as the murder of the young king, the army’s shooting of the princesses in the courtyard of Al-Rehab Palace and the lynching and murder of the prime minister. Were these violent scenes so different from the events of the Farhoud that befell the Jews in 1941 and left an indelible mark on the mind of the first character, the keeper of the flocks? Didn’t the masses also perpetrate those atrocities?
