His eyes land on the most conspicuous landmark, undoubtedly the object of his quest. The blue-tiled dome and quartet of stately minarets pronounces itself the seat of spiritual authority in Isfahan, obliterating the claims of other mosques. This is the Royal Mosque, the province of the mujtahid.
Beneath the dome he seeks out an old mulla who is muttering to himself. Jalal says, “I am looking for the mujtahid. Can you tell me where to find him?”
The old man looks at the disheveled and tarnished person in front of him, grunts and turns to walk away.
“Please!” Jalal says.
The old man turns back to stare at the dusty traveler. “The mujtahid is a very great and wise man,” he says dismissively, “a divine with enormous prestige, not to mention wealth, which I believe is a sign that spiritual vivacity is sometimes rewarded by material bliss. At least I hope that is true. He gives audience only to those who truly deserve his attention. So what, may I ask, is your business with the mujtahid?”
“I came to enlighten him about an important subject.”
This, of course, stuns the old man, who tries to restrain a chuckle but snorts loudly instead. “I see,” he says. “Well, then again, Siyyid Muhammad-Baqir has not appointed me to scrutinize or approve those soliciting his counsel—or wishing to counsel him.” The old man continues to stare at the traveler, impressed by the young man’s confidence and demeanor. “You will find him with his students in the inner courtyard. Follow this corridor.” The man gestures to a tiled hallway.
Jalal nods appreciatively. “Thank you,” he says. “May God grant you special favors for your assistance in His work.” And then he leaves.
The old man watches Jalal disappear down the corridor. Curiosity gets the better of him, though, and he decides to follow the strange young man to see what might happen.
Jalal finds the mujtahid seated crisply in front of his clean and well-groomed students. The untidy traveler, looking like a beggar compared to the others in their rich apparel, walks to the edge of the group.
The old man stands in the shadow of a column, watching.
Siyyid Muhammad-Baqir immediately sees the intruder standing before him. This young man appears so unkempt. So insignificant. So unimportant, in fact, that the mujtahid dismisses the intruder from his mind and continues imparting wisdom to his disciples. But then, during a pause in which he attempts to draw a breath of air, the mujtahid is interrupted.
“Listen carefully to my message,” Jalal says. “Your response can ensure the safety of the Faith of the Prophet of God… and refusal to consider it will cause the Faith grievous injury.”
A collective gasp rises from the students.Who would dare speak such words to the great mujtahid?
The old man in the shadows smiles in astonishment. This bold traveler may not live to see sunset, but his courage is refreshing.
Everyone expects the mujtahid to rebuke the intruder, but an even more extraordinary event transpires. The mujtahid merely stares at the young man in the dirty white robe for a good long time, and then, unruffled, speaks calmly.
“I cannot consider your message unless you state it. What message do you bring that is so urgent that you must interrupt my class to deliver it?”
“I have been sent here by Siyyid Kazim,” Jalal says. “I have been asked to learn why in the beginning you showed such consideration and affection for the late Shaykh Ahmad, and have now detached yourself from the body of his chosen disciples. Why is it that you have abandoned us to the mercy of our opponents?”
The mujtahid stares at Jalal for a moment. On the deeply creased parchment of his face, arched eyebrows form hasty diacritical marks over his eyes. After an uncomfortable pause he says, “So you are a Shaykhi. I should have guessed it. And you believe that I have altered my previous allegiance to the teachings of Shaykh Ahmad and his disciple, Kazim. I suppose I have, but for good reason. In these later years we have noticed so many conflicting statements and obscure, mysterious allusions in their writings that we felt it advisable to keep silent for a time. We chose to refrain from either censure or applause.”
The mujtahid has put Jalal on the defense. Is it not reasonable to choose neutrality when questions exist? The traveler knows that the mujtahid’s explanation could easily end the discussion—except for one thing.
Jalal takes several steps toward the mujtahid—not a threatening move, but a display of intellectual engagement. “I can appreciate your difficulty, Jalal replies. “Perhaps I can help remove your confusion. If you will set forth specifically such passages in their writings that seem to appear mysterious or inconsistent with the precepts of the Faith, I will—with the aid of God—undertake to explain their true meaning.”
This gentle thrust leaves the mujtahid tantalized by the prospect of quizzing this young man. “You make a reasonable suggestion,” he says. “But since you’ve just completed such a long journey, I’m sure you need some rest. We can leave this matter for another day. Let us show you our hospitality.”
“I appreciate your offer, but I won’t be able to rest until I’ve my mission.”
The mujtahid is moved by the traveler’s sincerity and perseverance. If only there were a chance that one of his students might mature into such a model of devotion. He can think of no candidate in this current crop of acolytes.
The learned doctor sits and turns to the beak-nosed student in the front of the group. He orders this boy to gather up some books of Shaykh Ahmad and Siyyid Kazim.
The old man in the shadows marvels at this turn of events. He steps into the sunlight. The mujtahid notices and waves for the old man to join the group. “This is my father, Mulla Muqaddas,” he explains.
“We have met,” Jalal replies. Turning to the old man, he says, “My name is Jalal from Bushruyíh.”
Muqaddas smiles at Jalal and says, “I wondered if it might be you. I’ve heard you are one of the brightest lights in the Shaykhi school.”
Jalal is startled that someone in such a distant city—particularly the father of the great Siyyid Muhammad-Baqir—has heard of him.
Just then the boy returns with an armload of books and the debate begins. The mujtahid plucks out of the manuscripts the most esoteric and intricate ideas of the Shaykhi leaders and artfully stages questions about matters that had deeply perplexed many of the most learned men in Persia. He craftily advances complex rebuttals and probes mercilessly for the slightest error or inconsistency in the logic of the young traveler’s exposition. For hours they debate the Shaykhi view on the eternal presence and vigilance of the holy Imam, the resurrection of the body, the Fourth Support of Islam. Time and again the great doctor loses in argument to the young messenger from Karbala, but always with a look of astonishment and enlightenment, not anger or frustration.
When at last the call to evening prayer interrupts this marathon conversation, both debaters look up to see that the group of students has quadrupled in size. Instead of exhaustion, the mujtahid appears exhilarated as he stands up, knees creaking painfully, and addresses the assemblage.
“I will soon issue a written declaration testifying to the high station of the two great teachers that Jalal has traveled so far to defend.”
Chapter 22
It has been three weeks since Ollie received the letter of resignation from Jonathon Fury. The simple note, written in Jonathon’s fluid hand, had been short and pointed: “I regret that I can no longer remain in your employ for reasons best left unstated. Jonathon.” The reasons may have been unspecified, but Ollie knows that Jonathon holds him responsible for William Kiekuk’s suicide.
Ollie understands the accusation but feels no remorse. If he had held a magnifying glass to the guilt and pain of that wretched sailor, and provoked a coward’s exit from this life, so be it. Had Ollie not served the cause of justice? Was not the note found in Kiekuk’s damp pocket an implicit confession? That smug, self-righteous Fury has no right to judge.
Still, Ollie misses the fiery-haired companion. He feels particularly
alone in this scum-pond called New York City. Though abrasive and argumentative, Jonathon always brought a practical outlook to every confrontation.
Ollie had tried for a week to locate Jonathon without success. He had sent a note to Jonathon’s apartment but it was returned. He had contacted the Herald and newspapermen from other papers, but no one had seen the man in the past couple of weeks.
On this particular Tuesday morning, Ollie wakes and remembers that he has not collected his mail since Mary had disappeared. The London Times had arranged for his personal mail to be sent to the offices of the New York Times for safekeeping, since Ollie had no known American address at the time of his departure from home.
After breakfast Ollie walks to the offices of the Times, a journey he has made a number of times in the past, hoping that there will be a letter from Herbert Eaton with news of home. It has been a long time since he has heard from his mentor. He braces himself for disappointment—on all but two occasions there has been no mail at all, and on those two the correspondence amounted to nothing more than reports from his solicitors in London concerning various mundane matters of land ownership and the state of other family assets. None of his letters to Herbert have been answered.
It is shocking, then, that his timid request for mail is greeted with a cheerful, “Why yes, Mr. Chadwick, we do have something for you.” But the letter placed into his eager hands does not bear the distinctively bold handwriting of Herbert Eaton, nor the officious printing of the legal aid in the solicitor’s office. The carefully written address, in purple ink, has clearly been applied to paper by the hand of a woman. On the back is the seal of Anne Chadwick.
Ollie seizes the letter and leaves the office building at once. His heart is pounding and his imagination swirls, but he cannot read this letter in public.
He catches the eye of a carriage driver and climbs aboard, instructing the man to simply drive—anywhere at all. Just keep moving. In the comparative privacy of the carriage, Ollie fumbles with the envelope, hoping to open it without damage, as if it were some kind of holy object. At last he is able to unseal the flap and remove the two pages of contents, astounded by the artful calligraphy of his mother’s script. She has written this letter slowly, carefully, as if believing that she must seduce her son into reading its message by caressing each word with the elegant strokes of her quill.
The first words make him weep—“Ollie, my Son…” Yes, he was right in seeking out a private reading place. The moisture in his eyes clouds his vision. He cannot read more until he wipes away the tears. And then his mother’s message becomes clear.
I pray to God that this letter will find you, and find you well. Herbert, with whom I have recently become reacquainted, was good enough to give me your address in America. What can I say, my son, but that the years have delivered unto me an awareness of my own past follies, and that this enlightenment has come with a heavy price. My remorse is overpowering and my sense of guilt so total that last week, upon the return of Herbert from a long trip abroad, I sought him out and begged for his forgiveness. The fact that he forgave me without pause demonstrates how foolish my past actions were. How different might our lives have been if your father had not exposed my dreadful secret, and that I was still married no matter how unjust that union might have been. And yet, if I had lived in a sinful relationship with Herbert, surely I would have been justly punished in some other way.
I have earned for myself some fame as an actress, and no small amount of material comfort, but none of this compensates for the terrible loss I feel as a mother. I believe that my sincerity in asking for Herbert’s forgiveness and understanding was rewarded by the news he brought back with him from abroad. He has learned that your father has died, no doubt at the hands of some party he had wronged. While I do not celebrate the death of any of God’s creation, I think that your father certainly brought about his own destruction, and his death has opened up new possibilities for me just as his life had closed them off.
I so hope that you will be pleased with the news that Herbert and I are going to be married—I almost said, “at last.” I have never stopped loving him, just as I have never stopped loving you, my son. My deepest desire is that the three of us can some day soon be a family.
I know that all this is being heaped upon you suddenly, so forgive me if I relate one other piece of news, something which I hope you will greet with the same kind of happiness I have in writing it. I will be sailing to New York City in October, arriving on the 18th, God willing, to perform a wonderful British play there. Herbert will join me in early November.
I cannot know how you will respond to this news, and I make no assumptions about your desire to see your mother again. And so, if you choose not to greet me at the harbor, I will understand, though I pray that I will see you standing there as I disembark in that exciting new land. This is a dream that will sustain me until I arrive.
Enough for now, my son, my only son. I pray that we will be together soon.
With my deepest love,
Your mother, Anisa
Ollie has been filled with hate for so long that forgiveness erupts like a fountain. Of course he will meet his mother at the harbor. Of course he is delighted that Herbert, his closest friend and mentor, will become his step-father. After so much tragedy, this letter brings him great joy. The news of his father’s death does not sadden him or please him. It’s as if the man had evaporated from Ollie’s life after the nightmarish scene at Almack’s.
That evening he dreams of curling up in his mother’s lap and listening to her velvety voice as she recites the story of the Enchanted Horse and its magical flight home.
Chapter 23
It has been gnawing on him, this fierce beast of guilt. Jonathon would love to continue his self-righteous conceit—that Oliver is wholly to blame for William Kiekuk’s suicide—but he knows better. He knows that he is equally to blame for this tragedy, for there is no difference between the sins of commission and the iniquities of omission when both lead to terrible pain and catastrophe.
In the dim gaslight of the darkroom, as Jonathon removes a plate from the fuming box, he is filled with regret. He alone, perhaps, holds the secret that could have prevented Ollie’s misguided behavior. It’s time to correct his omission, no matter what the consequences. Slipping on his rumpled jacket and buttoning it on the run, he catches a carriage and gives the driver the address of the boardinghouse.
He can feel the daguerreotype in his breast pocket. He has carried it there for weeks, always intending to find the right time to reveal it.
This may not be the best time, but it is a better time than later.
Phebe is mourning with relatives in Connecticut. The boarding house has been left in the maladroit hands of Beatrice, the servant girl, who is growing more distraught by the minute as unfulfilled responsibilities cascade into calamity, or so she believes.
Following breakfast, Ollie steps outside for a walk just as Jonathon Fury is racing across the street towards the house. Both men hesitate for a moment—how will the other one react to this sudden reunion?—but then both wave acknowledgement.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Ollie says matter-of-factly, trying not to show his great pleasure at seeing Jonathon again.
“Our last time together was not a pleasant one,” Jonathon replies.
“Yes, I know. But surely you can’t hold a grudge against me for confronting Mary’s killer. Certainly she deserved some kind of justice, a concept that seems entirely foreign to the police.”
“I can’t argue against justice,” Jonathon says quietly. “But the matter of whether justice was served is what I came to see you about.”
Ollie won’t be drawn into a philosophical argument. “It’s a tired old topic, my friend,” Ollie says. “Anyway, I have some very good news to share with you. My mother’s coming to New York.”
“I thought you were estranged?”
“No longer. She wrote to me and apologized. Wants to see me. Ohh—and sh
e’s getting married to Herbert, my mentor. I’m very anxious for you to meet my family.”
Jonathon pauses. This conversation is not going as he had planned. He hesitates to bring up the subject of the daguerreotype’s secret for fear that it will dampen Ollie’s spirits.
Ollie takes Jonathon by the arm and starts to walk toward the street. “Let’s walk,” he says. “It’s such a beautiful day.”
And so they walk together for over two hours. Where before Ollie protected his history like a dam holding back a deep reservoir of personal experience, his story now streams out like a whitewater river. Astonished by the details, Jonathon scarcely speaks. He had not known that Ollie was half-Persian, that his mother was enslaved by the Turkoman, or that his father was a member of the Qajar dynasty. He learns of the harsh days at the Charterhouse, the narrow escape from the lair of Reginald Pennick, the betrayal by his own father and his mother’s downward spiral from spirituality to infamy. The man who has been his employer—this brittle English journalist—becomes a human being.
The two men stop at a park and claim a wooden bench. “It occurs to me,” Ollie says, “that I’ve monopolized the conversation. Forgive me. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Forgiven. But I had no idea who you were and where you came from.”
“Maybe you can tell me who I am. Sometimes I don’t know.”
Jonathon starts to speak, but Ollie holds up a hand to stop him. “No more about me, please. But since I’ve shared some of my secrets with you, perhaps you’ll reciprocate. I know about your orphanage experiences and how you learned the art of daguerreotype, but almost nothing more. I know the book-ends, but none of the books. Now please, tell me about your life after the orphanage.”
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