Then a second list was compiled and it contained just twentysix deaths. That was the figure reported on television and in the papers. As I remember it, the list that was lost had at least twice as many fatalities. And then no document mentions those who died while they were trying to leave the city or were burnt alive in their cars. No one knows anything about them, except the Azeris, who will not say anything, of course…
When Nazar had put down the last sheet of paper, Stepankov picked up the file and it vanished into his briefcase. “Don’t get this wrong, Nazar Kallistratovich,” he said with the hint of a smile. “The situation is now totally calm, and order reigns in Baku.” (That is why Nadya Stepanovna’s words would surprise him on the train journey. And now that he looked around and saw the people crowding the pavements, the car and lorry drivers… well, it all looked entirely normal. The only abnormal thing was that there were armoured cars on the streets. And yet…) “But we must avoid,” continued Stepankov, “you understand me, I hope – we must avoid absolutely all provocations. You can imagine the pressures that the Prosecutor’s Office could be subjected to by the people in the streets and even the Party authorities themselves. It is shameful to admit this, but they are determined to have this investigation prove that it was all some Armenian plot. Judge for yourself: the dead man was the highest religious authority in the Republic. That is why it was decided to entrust the investigation to you, and I can tell you that the decision was taken at the highest level.”
Yes, yes, how he had sweetened the pill. But Nazar understood immediately that the truth lay elsewhere. The investigation was like one of those stones that when you lift it, you uncover all kinds of foul little beasties, and the chances are that the person who actually does lift the stone gets bitten on the hand – not to mention the stench and filth. And so he had them to thank for being chosen for that job – and “at the highest level” to boot. And now there he was, in Baku amongst the Muslims, the people whom Bayramova, the Second Secretary of the Party Committee in Sumgait had pleaded with during the days of the massacre: my brother Muslims, don’t murder the Armenians! Let them leave Azerbaijan freely! (This too had been in Stepankov’s report. Bayramova had obviously been ousted, as had the First Secretary, Muslim-zade. And a few people had ended up in prison. So order was restored in Baku!) No, Nazar understood this very well: he could not trust anyone there, particularly if they were members of the local authorities – unless they were Russians. Now that Kandayev was taking him to the hotel and struggling through the traffic, he could not help wondering whether that apparently highly-strung youth was just another driver or someone they had put there for a particular purpose…
XV
The Sura of the Spider
Baku, May 1988
What Nazar Kallistratovich did not know was that a few days before his throat was cut, the ayatollah had received a rather unusual visit: none other than General Zia Yusufzade, president of the Azerbaijan KGB, had come to see him.
It would wrong the dead man to say that he was frightened; Pashayev was not a man to frighten easily, although, in the light of what would happen, he should perhaps have worried a little bit more. But he was surprised, and while he drank tea with his guest in his study opening out onto the courtyard of the mosque, he tried in vain to guess the reason for the visit. But good manners required that the question should not be broached too quickly. In the end, the general, having exhausted the customary niceties, appeared to decide that he would confront the issue that had brought him there.
“Some strange things have been occurring here,” he started off. “On cutting an aubergine in two, a man discovered that the seeds inside it were arranged in such a manner that you could read the name of Allah. Since then there has been a continuous pilgrimage of believers. The first miraculous aubergine was discovered by the Imam of Köy, and a few days later three more were found in the vegetable garden of the custodian of the tomb of Mehmed Efendi, where five thousand people came in a few days to pay homage to the new relics.”
“I see,” said Pashayev. “Soviet power is fearful of aubergines… Listen, I am going to tell you this because I know you to be a friend, and if I am not mistaken, we are distant relations. Well, it is of course quite admissible to pronounce on arguments of this kind. A few years ago, the mufti of Tashkent, not the current one but his father, His Excellency Ziauddin Babakhanov, issued a fatwa declaring pilgrimages to holy places to be violations of religious law, particularly if the Islamic nature of such places has not been established, and he considered such violations to be a mortal sin. But why aubergines? Aubergines are very good with garlic, salt and yogurt, and the ones you are talking about are, it appears, also good Muslims.” Who would credit it, the general thought, he believes that this is the reason I have come. Who knows? Maybe my dear assistant, Major Anisimov, has warned him: the general will visit you and he is concerned about aubergines… His voice now adopted an official tone, “Journalists have started to denounce the dangers of the criminal activities of imperialists: sabotage, spying, ideological subversion and the infiltration of foreign agents. I don’t believe that the religious authorities of this Republic want to be complicit in such shameless intrigues.”
Pashayev started to fret. High above his head, a composition of blue and white tiles glistened on the wall.
The black inscription on the porcelain was the first sura, “Mother of the Koran”, painted with such an exquisite calligraphy that General Yusuf-zade had difficulty in deciphering it. When a man is getting on in years, it is not easy for him to start studying an unknown language, even if it is the one in which God speaks. A casket on the carpet contained clay tablets, and Arab lettering was impressed on these too, but it was not so refined: they were clay tablets from Mecca, which believers buy at exorbitant prices so that they can lean down during their prayers and touch the sacred soil with their foreheads. In theory, their import was prohibited by law and they could not be sold publicly, but by this period, you could find them in the bazaars, and it was becoming increasingly common to find them in people’s homes. It was not yet the time for prayer, but Pashayev continued to look at them, as though he were impatient for his uninvited guest to leave. The KGB man was amused: during house searches, those they arrested always looked towards the places where they had hidden their most precious things – letters or manuscripts – thus doing the work for their interrogators. But what could Pashayev have hidden amongst the clay tablets? Of course, he just wanted to get rid of his unwanted visitor… The general adjusted his tie, as though he were on the point of departure.
“I’m sorry to have taken up your time,” he said deferentially. “Your work is very precious.”
“All work is precious,” the Ayatollah replied. “But most precious of all for the state is the work of those who work in the palace paved with glass.” Yusuf-zade went silent and tried to understand. This was clearly an allusion to him and his work; this, at least, was clear, but why a palace paved with glass? Then he realised that Pashayev had quoted the Koran, or more specifically Sura XXVII, referred to as the Ant. He tried to remember the exact quotation, and eventually he managed and clearly articulated the words, “‘She was bidden to enter the palace, and when she saw it, she thought it was a pool of water, and bared her legs. But Solomon said, It is a palace paved with glass.’ Did I get it right? However, here we say, ‘The palace where the rooms have five corners’.” The general went silent and realised that Pashayev was staring at him with a meaningful expression; and this formula, once part of the professional jargon of the Cheka, clearly did not have the same associations for the Muslim cleric as it did for him. When you get a woman to search for the fifth corner, she doesn’t only have to reveal her legs… The general’s throat felt dry, and he poured some more tea. But when he drank it, he had to suppress a grimace of disgust. The tea was now stewed, and no sugar had been served. He loved to drink it well sugared, and in general he liked everything sickly sweet, but the ayatollah was worried about putting on w
eight. If he did not get the point that evening, thought Yusuf-zade, then there would be little chance of him getting any fatter.
Pashayev continued to remain silent with his eyes lowered in contemplation of the tea leaves at the bottom of his crystal glass. Eventually he sighed, and stroked his nose with his finger to remove some sweat, but he was not hot.
With his turban and enormous beard, he should have been melting into a pool of sweat, but in Baku the old men would say that whatever protects you from the cold also protects you from the heat. Perhaps they were right. “Strange things are happening here,” he admitted; “you are quite right, comrade general. Muslims should pass their nights warming their women, as it has been written, ‘They are an apparel for you, and you are an apparel for them.’ But God in his wisdom knows how they actually pass their nights.” The general was startled. Praise be to the Prophet, Pashayev had brought up the question, although in his typically hypocritical manner. They both knew that at that time good Muslims were spending more time on greasing their guns than on warming their women, and sooner or later they were going to use them. Over in Karabakh, or perhaps, who knows, even in Baku… Yusuf-zade smiled as he twisted his glass around in its silver holder, and replied, “If I am not mistaken, it is also written, ‘Women are your fields: go, then, into your fields whenever you like. Do good works beforehand and fear God.’ Are not those deeds the good works of which the Prophet spoke?” Pashayev opened his eyes wide; his guest had not given him the reply he expected to hear, and now he became alarmed. “General,” he said cautiously, “I bow to your doctrine. The sura you have just quoted contains many interesting verses, but not all the commentators on the Law are in agreement on how to define good works. What is your opinion on the matter?” Perhaps he was trying to open a line of communication, but it would be better to be on one’s guard; he was not a friend whom the general could trust. “I do have an opinion,” he muttered, “but I fear that I would be committing the sin of presumption if I were to elucidate it in your presence. For it has been written, ‘God knows the truth, but you do not.’”
“I am increasingly amazed,” Pashayev retorted. “Clearly the courses on atheism today go into much greater depth than they did in my day. One might even say that you know more than I do! Really, comrade general, if I were in your shoes, I would be fearful of waking up one morning to find myself a good Muslim.” Only then did the general raise his eyes to look at him, and he saw that the other man was laughing. Son of a bitch, you haven’t understood a damn thing, and you’ve been making fun of me from the moment I got here. “And so, my dear comrade,” the cleric chortled, “I’m curious to know: have you had your children circumcised?” What a question, the general said to himself, while he tried to control the anger that was taking possession of him; you know very well that my wife has only given me daughters. God has decreed it! If Amaral had been capable of giving me a son, I would have had him circumcised; do you think I am a Russian pig? But the ayatollah was not prepared for the reply; he had stopped chortling and was drinking his tea, while savouring his little joke. “You know,” said the general slowly, “I don’t like to reply to questions, especially when I don’t know who will be informed of my replies. My profession, you have perhaps forgotten, consists in asking questions of others and not in replying.” The cleric did not bat an eyelid, as though he had not heard. The fan hanging from the ceiling continued to turn, the khadim was sweeping the dust from the courtyard of the mosque, and a group of Russian teenagers had turned up a ghetto-blaster to blast the neighbourhood with one of Toto Cutugno’s songs. “And do you drink whisky?” Pashayev spoke at last. He was enjoying the jokes and had understood nothing. He thought he had confounded the general, but the general knew that the Book is not so categorical as so many ignorant believers would have it, as though God, while dictating to the Prophet, paused to reflect and was unhappy with imposing this displeasure on His followers. “Unless I am deceiving myself,” he said, “it is written that wine and gambling are a sin, but there are also advantages in them for men.”
A wasp was constantly hitting the window and buzzing.
“Exactly, advantages for men,” said Pashayev. “And what were you telling me about good works? I can assure you that you can speak of them without committing the sin of presumption.” He had the large and gnarled hands typical of a peasant’s son who has studied, and now he was looking at his stubby and well manicured nails, while smiling into his beard. The general decided that the time had come to reveal at least one of his cards, “So, I was saying that perhaps those things you were referring to are in fact the good works of which the Prophet spoke. Indeed, it is written, ‘Fighting is an obligation upon you, much as you dislike it.’” This reply did not please Pashayev, who stopped smiling and looking at his nails. “Strange things are happening here,” he repeated for the third time, “which will displease both God and man.
The Armenians of Karabakh have voted to leave Azerbaijan and rejoin Armenia, and there are already those who are ready to die in order to stop them – no, don’t interrupt me, please. I wish to tell you a story, general. It is said that at the time of Imam Khazi Magomed, the saintly sheikh Dzhemaleddin of Kazi-kumukh disagreed with him when he wanted to fight the Russians and incited the population of Daghestan to rise up. He wrote to advise him to leave off those actions, if he wanted to continue to be a disciple in accordance with the sufi tradition. Khazi Magomed did not want to listen to Dzhemaleddin and showed the letters to Sheikh Magomed of Kurin, asking for his authorisation to fight the Russians. He wrote, ‘God, the most holy, orders us in the Book to wage war against the infidels and the godless, but Dzhemaleddin has not given me permission. Whose orders should I follow?’ ‘The orders of God must be followed before those of men,’ Sheikh Magomed replied and we know how it all turned out. Many Muslims should reflect on that story. But today, those who have eyes with which to see, prefer to keep them closed.”
“And yet,” said the general, “God’s orders must be followed first. Or am I wrong?” Pashayev looked at him and slightly opened his lips fringed by a black beard, but then changed his mind and took off his glasses to clean them with a hem of his silk clothing. As the other man was saying nothing, he replaced his glasses and stared at the general through the thick lenses. “You are wrong,” he said curtly.
“Better men than us have believed that they were sent to carry out God’s orders, and they were to have reason to regret this.” The general once again felt the anger welling up; it seemed that the cleric was threatening him. He was about to stand up and walk out, but then decided to give Pashayev another chance. Instead of replying, he smiled gently and poured a little more tea. “Many people happen to have regrets,” he said almost casually, after having sipped from his glass, even though the liquid now seemed as bitter as bile. “But not everyone has the good fortune to have been warned. On hearing the warning, there are those who understand and those who believe they can carry on as before.” While he was talking, he looked at the other man out of the corner of his eye. He had almost closed his eyes, and appeared to be listening to the humming of the fan hanging from the ceiling. He will report everything, the general thought suddenly. He will report every word of this conversation, but to whom? To that mangy dog, Anisimov?
Of course, he is a cleric who respects the Soviet laws. Yet he did not come to me; he didn’t trust me. He went to Anisimov, and found his protector… Suddenly the general remembered another passage from the Koran – from Sura XXIX, called the Spider. This was most definitely the day of the insects, but Pashayev did not yet know that this time, the spider would not get to eat the ant.
“The interpretation of a passage has perplexed me for some time,” he said. “But you could illuminate me with your doctrine. Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe I have memorised it. It says, ‘Those who serve protectors other than God resemble the spider, which builds its own house, but in truth the spider’s is the feeblest of dwellings, if only they knew it.’ Now tell me how y
ou would interpret this teaching?” And now the ayatollah’s hand was trembling, the glass shook on the saucer and the crystal rattled against the silver, but it was not fear; it was anger.
“General,” Pashayev hissed, “you do know, I believe, whom you are speaking to? Yes, you know very well. Then given that you say you have come here to warn me, listen to what I have to say: it may be that there are others amongst your acquaintances who are more in need of a warning than I am. Think about these words, once you have left this building.” The general found it difficult to believe that the other man was threatening him again, and yet that was exactly what was happening. Pashayev still believed that he had the upper hand. “I know who I am speaking to, but I don’t know what you are talking about,” the KGB man said cautiously. “Ah, so you don’t know what I am talking about?
Then listen! Not far from here is the city of Sumgait, and in that city there is an Avenue of Peace and an Avenue of Friendship; if I remember clearly, they meet at the bus station. Some families lived in the Avenue of Peace and the Avenue of Friendship and they were attacked during the night. Now, here in Baku there is also an Avenue of Peace and an Avenue of Friendship, and I hope that their names will not have to be changed. I don’t want war, whose voice has echoed round my home for far too long. Do you know that my father came home from the front without a leg after having been wounded three times? And he was wounded fighting for Soviet power.”
The Anonymous Novel Page 23
