“Two more,” Ollie says, then watches the barmaid whirl and slice through the crowded room.
“It’s a wonderful place!” Charles says, smiling for the first time. “A place for authors.” He takes a deep breath, inhaling the ghostly smell of drying ink and famous prose.
“Yes, I agree. Quite wonderful,” Ollie says. “But let me tell you about our guests before they arrive. I don’t know much about them, but they will be here shortly and—”
Ollie is startled by the sudden appearance of the man from the carriage.
“I hope I’m not too early,” the man says. “I thought it would take longer to get here.” He turns to Charles, extends a hand and introduces himself. “I am Eardley Pickwick.”
Charles takes his hand and shakes it vigorously. “Charles Dickens, pleased to meet you.”
Eardley sits down, turns to Ollie, and utters a string of Farsi, expressing his dismay that Ollie has brought a companion to the meeting. Ollie lies, saying that he and Charles meet every Wednesday evening at the George & Vulture to discuss literary matters, so it is Eardley and his mysterious companion who are the interlopers, not Charles.
Charles listens quietly. He doesn’t understand Farsi, but he senses the tension in this exchange, and it makes him uneasy. “Something to drink?” he asks Eardley, hoping to lighten the moment.
Eardley ignores Charles—or maybe not, for he switches back to English. “We have only a few moments alone, so let me be candid.”
“Please do,” Ollie replies.
“The real reason I came early was to explain my desperate circumstances. I hope this will remain confidential?” Eardley glances at Charles, who stares back for a moment before realizing the question was directed at him. Charles nods his agreement.
“During the past two years it was my misfortune to fall upon hard times,” Eardley continues. “My debts mounted quickly, and fearing that my creditors might plunge me into debtor’s prison, I tried to solve my dilemma by gambling. As you might guess, this misguided strategy produced—well, let’s just say unsatisfactory results.” Eardley nervously looks over his shoulder, ensuring that the second man has not yet arrived.
“Why are you telling us this?” Ollie asks.
“Because I must implore you to cooperate with my companion. You see, he came to England seeking an English tutor and translator who could help him in his diplomatic work. But I sensed from the beginning that his true mission was something else entirely. While I don’t pretend to know his goal, it is clear that you are an important part of its achievement.”
Charles is lost. He speaks up: “Is this other man from Persia, like Ali?”
“Yes. And he has promised me a substantial amount of money to help locate Ollie, the bulk of which will be paid if and when his mission can be accomplished. The sum is enough to satisfy my creditors! And he has promised me continued employment as well—if his objective is attained. The truth is, you see, while I told Ollie that I was an adjunct professor at Oxford, I have not been employed there for several years. I was dismissed for—well, that’s quite another story. Unfortunately, there are not many employment opportunities at the moment for an expert in oriental history and languages, especially when one is shut out of academia. This, I’m afraid, is at the root of my financial dilemma. So you see, in a large sense, my fate is in your hands.”
“And what would you have Ollie do?” Charles asks.
Eardley lowers his eyes sadly and mutters, “I don’t know.” Then he lifts his gaze to stare directly into Ollie’s eyes. “But I beg of you, please give him a chance to explain, and keep an open mind. He seems like a very nice gentleman, and he’s very rich.”
The barmaid interrupts with a mug of ale. “Here ya go, sir,” she says to Charles, spilling the foam as she pushes the pewter mug toward the boy. Then she turns to Eardley and says, “There’s a gentleman wants a word with ya, sir, in the back room. Says you’ll know what it’s about. Anything in the meantime, sir?”
Eardley stands, nodding no. The barmaid departs and Eardley sighs deeply, the stress of the moment pinching his entire face into a pucker. Ollie can see perspiration on the man’s brow. “I beg of you…” Eardley says to Ollie. And then he disappears into the crowd.
Ollie is afraid of the revelation that is only moments away. But what does he fear? Here, in the George & Vulture, he is surrounded by civilized humanity. Still, since the episode with Reginald Pennick, any eccentric or secretive behavior by an older man—particularly one in a position of power—arouses Ollie’s suspicions. Ollie has vowed never to be in such a vulnerable position again. He gulps the remainder of his wine and motions for the barmaid.
“Yes sir, another wine?” the matron asks.
Ollie produces another bright, shiny guinea, holding it up for the woman to see. “Yes, one more, please. And this is for you—if you’ll keep an eye on our table. We may require your service at a moment’s notice.”
The barmaid stares at the coin, her eyes gleaming. Two guineas in one night! Of course she will give the young man her special attention. She reaches out to seize the guinea, but as her hand nears it, Ollie flicks his wrist and the coin moves just beyond her reach.
“Remember, now. I need your attention.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
Ollie flips the coin to the woman, who bobbles it. The guinea falls with a clank to the floor. She stoops to retrieve it, then stands up with a grin. “If you should need anything, sir—“ she says. And then she is gone.
“That’s quite a lot of money to be throwing away,” Charles says.
“It’s nothing. My grandmother was rich.”
“And now you are.”
“In time, perhaps. Right now I’m just a school boy with a pocket full of guineas.”
Ollie’s eyes are drawn to the back room. The smoke and a forest of standing bodies hide the entrance to this room, but suddenly a gold and brown turban emerges from it, hovering above the freshly ironed hats and balding heads of the chattering Englishmen who obscure the wearer. The turban hesitates for a moment, then begins to float through the crowd.
Ollie’s heart hammers his chest. He is terrified! How could he ever have believed that a public place could protect him? What a stupid idea it was to meet this man. Ollie presses his fingers against his chest, feeling the silver charm beneath his shirt and praying for protection.
The turban continues to float menacingly above the crowd, weaving in and out, left and right, making its way toward Ollie. But the face beneath it remains hidden in shadows, veiled in smoke, blocked by the other men.
Ollie shuts his eyes. He wishes he were safely at home in his Belgravia mansion. Yes, his mansion. He is the heir, the master. He is no longer a child. He must gain control of himself, take charge of this situation. This is his country, his London, his tavern, his barmaid—he has seen to that!—and his meeting. The gentleman in the turban should be the nervous one.
With great resolve, Ollie opens his eyes. The turbaned man is hidden behind the body of Eardley Pickwick who stands at the table and says, “Mr. Chadwick, I would like to introduce my employer.”
Eardley steps aside. The turbaned man approaches the table and his face becomes fully illuminated. In a thick accent, the man says, “Good evening, Ali.”
Ollie stares at the man in disbelief. His brain swirls, his body shivers, his heart clenches into a fist. This cannot be! Not in London! Not after his long escape across the Persian desert.
Ollie replies at last. There are so many things that he could say, but only three words come to him: “Good evening, father.”
Startled, Charles turns to Ollie. What a delicious twist! Who could invent such a plot?
Eardley, too, is astonished.
But not as surprised as Ollie, who manages to control himself like a proper English gentleman. “Please join us. I’m eager to hear about your travels.”
Ollie gestures and the barmaid appears almost instantly. “My friends would like something to drink,”
Ollie says. “Mr. Pickwick?”
“An ale please, dark.”
Ollie turns to his father, Mirza Hasan Qasim. In Farsi he says, “Father? Perhaps you wish to abstain from alcohol.”
Hasan replies in Farsi: “I’ll have whatever you are drinking. Wine? Perfect. I find the wine in London not up to the standards of Shiraz, but sufficient.”
“My apologies, Charles, if we speak for a few minutes in our native tongue,” Ollie says, then coolly turns back to his father, again speaking in Farsi. “How did you find me?”
“Your mother’s portrait on a book caught my eye. Such a beautiful woman. Mr. Pickwick contacted the publisher and the rest was quite simple. How do you find public life?”
“Intrusive,” Ollie says. “Tell me about Bushruyih. I haven’t seen it in over three years.”
“Neither have I.”
“You don’t live there?”
“Shortly after you left, there was an unfortunate event involving the provincial vizier, who was attacked and slaughtered outside the village. I led a small, brave band of Bushruyih citizens into the desert where we found the Turkoman murderers and annihilated them, despite their superior force. I was so distressed at the death of the great vizier that I took news of the tragedy—and the justice we administered—directly to the shah. As a show of gratitude, the shah named me to fill the vizier’s vacant position.”
“So now you’re the vizier of Khurasan?”
“No longer. About a year later, Persia found itself at war with the Russians. Perhaps you heard. No? Well, it suddenly seemed wise for our country to court the English as allies, even though Persians distrust Englishmen almost as much as Russians. I made another journey to Tehran and gained an audience with my uncle, the shah, suggesting that I might be useful in a diplomatic position. As you may recall, I had learned a few words of English from that traitor, Gordon Cranston, and I demonstrated my ability. The shah could not judge my lack of fluency, of course, and so my meager abilities must have been magnified in his estimation. At any rate, I gained my new post as a diplomat to England and began consulting with the British Attaché in Tehran, who helped me improve my English—in exchange, of course, for favors that I was now in a position to grant.”
Eardley suspects that payment to Hasan for ‘favors’ had bought more than English lessons.
“A few months ago,” Hasan continues, “with the war going badly, I was asked to come to London and appeal for more support. How fortunate for me that you and your mother also wound up in London. Now, please, tell me your story. I understand that your English family is rich and powerful. It appears that you descend from the Qajar empire on one side, and a British publishing empire on the other. For Persians, you would be considered the first-born of a strategic union between cultures. Who would have thought that your slave-mother would turn out to be a British heiress? That would have been useful to know.”
Ollie looks at this man and no longer sees his father. Instead, he sees a cold and conniving Persian diplomat. Had his father changed over the years, or was he always like this? Maybe his mother’s book, with its vivid portrayal of the villainous kelauntar, had more truth in it than Ollie had known.
“I am at a disadvantage,” Ollie says. “It seems you already know my story. And since I know so little of yours, may I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“What do you want?”
Mirza Hasan Qasim stiffens in his chair. The accusatory tone of his son’s question startles him. He had hoped that Ali would be glad to see him, but there is no sign of sentiment or love in this boy. His mother must have poisoned his mind! “All right, you want to know my intentions? They are quite simple. I am here to take you back with me to Persia.”
Now Ollie stiffens. Surely this is a joke!
“Why would I return to Persia?” Ollie asks.
“To help your country,” Hasan replies.
“My country is England.”
“You were born in Persia, the son of a Persian prince. You are a Persian, not an Englishman.”
“My country is England now. I was born in Persia, the son of a slave. My mother is an Englishwoman, and England is my home.”
“Ali, in the name of Allah, and for the sake of Muhammad—praise be unto Him—please reconsider. Your country is at war with Russia.”
“In the name of Allah, did you say? Maybe your agents failed to inform you that I am a Christian now. Whatever I do, I do in the name of Jesus. And for the sake of Jesus, I will remain in England.” Ollie has not experienced such religious stirrings in a long time, but his father has confronted him directly with his past, which he now considers pagan. His emotions are roused, and he finds himself saying things he only half means. “I will never return to Persia! I will never leave England!”
At these words, Hasan seems to slump. The pomp has leaked out of him. He lowers his head for a moment, then raises his eyes. Ollie detects moisture in those eyes—tears, or maybe just the sting of cigar smoke—but says nothing. An awkward silence envelopes them.
Finally, Eardley clears his throat and mutters a nervous, “Well, then—”
In a quiet voice, Hasan interrupts. He says to Ollie, “I can see that an appeal to your patriotism was a mistake. Let me confess my real motive. I am a father who has lost his son. When you left Bushruyih, my heart was broken. Every moment of my life has been spent trying to find you. I sought my new position as a diplomat hoping it would give me certain advantages in gaining information about you and your mother. You were my only son. You are my only son. Now I’ve found you, and my heart aches as it did the morning I discovered you gone.”
Ollie begins to soften. He can recall the gentleness and emotion with which the kelauntar agreed to send him to the madrisih in Mashhad. Perhaps there is a middle ground here. What would be the harm in reestablishing a relationship with his own father?”
“I never gave up hope of getting you back,” Hasan says. “And your mother.”
These words cut Ollie like a dagger. And your mother! Anisa the slave girl. Yes, it is becoming clear now. This is about possession. About Mirza Hasan Qasim’s pride and the humiliation of losing his cherished objects. He wants them back! And he will stop at nothing until he succeeds. Now his son is not just a son, but a political advantage, a blood relation to a potential ally. How much of his father’s story is true? All of it now is suspect. Looking back on this conversation with a fresh perspective, Ollie detects a pattern of deceit. Hasan had changed tactics too quickly, had sprouted tears too early, and most likely had bent and twisted every element of his story to suit his selfish interests.
Ollie grows angry but contains his emotions long enough to quietly say, “Father, you never had a son.” What he means is that Hasan had always viewed Ali as a possession, but Hasan takes from these words a different and more provocative meaning—that Ollie is denouncing his father.
Hasan erupts, slamming a fist on the table. The glasses and mug jump. “It is not for the son to denounce his father!” Hasan fiercely proclaims. “You are mine! You were taken from me, and I will have you back.” The outburst cracks Hasan’s thin veneer of reasonableness, confirming Ollie’s suspicions.
Eardley tries to patch the crack with a paste of soft words and sentiment. “Ollie, surely you can understand the heartbreak of a father,” he says desperately. “He is only angry because he loves you. I’m sure you didn’t mean what you said. Tell him that you’ll reconsider. Maybe take a little time—”
“I meant what I said!” Ollie says firmly. “Now please leave!”
“The conversation is not over until I give the order!” Hasan insists. “There is another matter that may change your mind.”
Ollie bristles at his father’s arrogance. “As the host, I declare this meeting adjourned.”
“No! The conversation is not over.” Hasan’s face glows red with anger. He is not accustomed to defiance. This is now a test of wills, and Hasan has underestimated the will of his son. Ollie is no longer the me
ek twelve-year-old who dwells in Hasan’s time-sweetened memory.
Ollie motions to the barmaid, who within seconds materializes at the table. “These gentlemen have been invited to leave,” Ollie explains. “Would you inform the proprietor that they may need to be escorted out?”
At first the barmaid does not understand, but when she peers into the angry face of Hasan it all becomes clear.
“I’ll have something for you afterward,” Ollie suggests.
The barmaid scurries off to get help.
Eardley, seeing his life suddenly crushed between the feuding parties, dissolves into a porridge of self-pity.
Charles seems invigorated by his companion’s spunk, even though he understands little of the conversation.
Hasan leans over the table, glaring at Ollie. “You are not considering the interests of your mother in your decision,” he says.
Ollie sits back in his chair. “What do you mean?”
“If you returned to Persia, you could spare her.”
“Spare her—from what?”
“From humiliation. Do you know how she humiliated me with the lies in her book? Of course you do. But my mortification is nothing compared to what she will face.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one in Persia will read your mother’s book, so my humiliation will not exist there, where it would most hurt me. But consider what disgrace your mother will suffer when certain information is revealed within her own circle here in London.”
The barmaid returns with two hulking men wearing scowls. “Are your friends ready to leave, sir?” the barmaid asks Ollie. For a moment, Ollie ignores the barmaid and the two men. Staring at Hasan, he asks, “What information?”
Hasan leans close to Ollie, whispers into his ear. As he speaks, a faint sneer deforms his lips.
When Hasan is finished speaking, Ollie leans back in his chair, visibly shaken. “You would do this?” he asks his father, who merely nods yes.
Ollie turns to the barmaid and says, “They are ready to leave. Please show them out.”
The two hulks step forward threateningly, but Eardley and Hasan rise without further encouragement. As he begins to walk away, Hasan turns to Ollie with cold, passionless eyes, and again nods yes—an exclamation point to his warning.
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