Herbert nods pathetically.
“And you must be cleaned up. Hair washed and brushed. Eyes clear. Fresh clothes on your person, not these foul-smelling garments that reek of vomit. Until then…”
Isaac steps into the room. He cannot bear to see Oliver and Herbert arguing.
Oliver is startled by his presence, and Herbert turns away, embarrassed.
“It’s all right, father,” Isaac says, “I’m not a child, and you needn’t keep secrets from me. I’m your son, after all.”
Oliver sighs and puts the empty bottle back onto the nightstand. “I didn’t want you to see him in this condition,” Oliver explains.
Isaac walks around his father to see Herbert’s red, bloated face. The man’s rheumy eyes are bloodshot and full of tears. His hair is matted in the back and sticking out like straw in the front. His dressing gown is wrinkled and stained.
Herbert wipes his nose on a sleeve and sniffs.
“Hi, grandpa,” Isaac says. “I’ve missed you.” And then he leans in and embraces the old man with both arms. “Been a tough time, huh?” he whispers. He knows about despair, and tough times, and how they bring out the worst,
The warm touch and gentle voice bring fresh tears to Herbert’s eyes, and he fights to keep from sobbing.
Oliver watches his son tenderly pull away from Herbert, then wipe the moisture from the old man’s cheeks.
“I don’t deserve you,” Herbert says, attempting a smile but producing only a sad wrinkle.
“What time is it?” Isaac asks, turning to Oliver.
“Seven or so. Almost dinner time.”
Isaac says, “I’m starved.” He turns back to Herbert and smiles. “But there’s time for a hot bath and a bit of grooming first. I’ll help you.”
“No, no, I can manage,” Herbert replies bravely. “I’ll call for hot water. You two get ready for dinner and I’ll see you downstairs.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind.” Isaac says, taking the old man’s hand.
“I am absolutely positive!” Herbert stands for the first time and manages an actual smile. “Must preserve some dignity, you know.”
“All right then. Come on, father. He’ll be fine.” Isaac leads Oliver out of the room, closing the door behind him.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Oliver says solemnly.
“You said he murdered your father. What does that mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. Herbert’s my father.”
“But your real father was a Persian.”
“Am I not your father?”
Isaac understands Oliver’s meaning. And he knows the discussion is over. Isaac retreats to his room and dons fresh clothes for the evening meal.
About eight o’clock, he rambles down the stairs and finds Jonathon, Phebe, and Oliver seated at an enormous table. They are dressed in their finest clothes and chatting amiably. As Isaac enters the room, they look up and smile. Oliver, who is seated at the head of the table, gestures to a chair on his left and Isaac takes it.
“Now, then, all we need is Herbert and we can begin dinner,” Oliver says. Oscar, a gray and wiry server, pours wine and delivers plates of tiny morsels that Isaac cannot identify but which awaken his taste buds.
About fifteen minutes later, as the server is pouring more wine, Oliver says, “Oscar, would you be so good as to remind Herbert that our guests are waiting on him? The pheasant will be cold by the time he arrives.”
Oscar nods, puts down the shimmering green wine bottle and stiffly walks out of the room.
The wine glasses are empty again by the time Oscar returns and announces, ashen-faced, “I’m afraid there has been an accident, sir.”
At these words Isaac flees from his seat, races up the stairway and dashes to Herbert’s room. The door is open. Inside he can see the tub that had been placed there for Herbert’s bath, and the red water in which the old man lies slumped, head back, mouth and eyes open, one arm hanging like a broken tree branch above a pool of blood and a straight razor.
Isaac stands there for a moment disbelieving his eyes. When he tries to run to Herbert, he is restrained by Oliver, who is now standing behind him.
“Let him be, son,” Oliver says. “He’s at peace now. And I trust he’s with Anne.”
It is not the occasion that Oliver would have chosen for introducing his American family to Chillington-hall, but life does not always offer choices. And so here they are, standing solemnly on the cold grounds of Chillington-hall, watching Herbert’s coffin being lowered into a freshly dug pit near Mum’s tombstone and the empty graves of Augustus and Elizabeth, whose bones still lie somewhere in Persia. Oliver can imagine that a small gathering like this one, sometime in the future, will watch his own coffin lowered into a dark hole near Mum’s grave. And then some day further on, Isaac will find rest here as well.
Oliver thinks about his mother, Anne, who had been buried in a small cemetery in New York City, and he vows to have her moved here. It is only right.
The comforting thing about cemeteries is that they bring families together.
Chapter 3
By horseback, through the scorching heat of summer, Jalal has traveled three hundred miles from Shiraz to Isfahan, the first city in the route of the great mission prescribed by the Rasul. Everywhere the ravages of Persian tyranny and misgovernment have been visible. Along the road lay the scorched skeletons of many abandoned villages, and for long stretches the only vegetation has been scrubby tamarind trees and thorn bushes. Jalal has been traveling to many cities to debate the mujtahids and announce the cause of the Rasul. It is hard work. Most mujtahids have been hostile and unwavering in their ignorance.
Now, as he rests in the courtyard of a madrisih in Teheran, he looks up to see one of the teachers, a Shaykhi, glaring at him.
“When I heard that you had come to our school, my heart was full,” the instructor replies. “You were the brightest of Kazim’s students. I had hoped that you would promote the best interests of the Shaykhis, perhaps even help raise us out of obscurity here in the capital. But you seem to have abandoned your teacher’s doctrines and set out on a suicidal mission that will also bring about the complete extinction of the few Shaykhis here in Teheran.”
“Then you will be pleased to know that I have not abandoned the teachings of Shaykh Ahmad or Siyyid Kazim. Did they not both urge us to seek the Promised One, whom they said would appear in our time? And would not their teachings take on a different character after the fulfillment of their prophecy?”
The two men begin to debate the message that Jalal has brought to Teheran. It ends as the instructor expresses his disdain for this weary messenger by kicking sand on him and raging out of the courtyard.
By early afternoon, an animated crowd has gathered to watch a local mulla, known to be a shrewd and fearsome debater, lose point after point in his argument with Jalal. The crowd clearly backs their local cleric, hoping to see the itinerant heretic publicly humiliated. Finally, though clearly beaten, the local mulla proposes that the debate be called a draw “because heresy is powerful; it has the assistance of Satan, and so I have been clearly disadvantaged in this debate and remain unpersuaded in my views.”
Many of the observers leave wondering why truth does not have the assistance of God to balance things out.
Jalal finds these public discourses increasingly unsatisfying. The outcome is often unclear and he fears that the sand-kicking Shaykhi instructor may have had a good point. Perhaps these public pronouncements cause more damage than good.
Famished, he begins to walk toward a large open-air market. The meaty aromas of kabob make his stomach growl, but for the first time he begins to worry about his ability to pay. Perhaps he will forego this meal and turn the pain of hunger into a meditation on sacrifice.
As he turns away from the meat vendors, Jalal literally bumps into a man dressed in very odd clothing. The only foreign-looking clothes like these that he can remember were worn by a Christian missionary in Bushruyi
h, a man who had tutored English to his best friend’s mother.
The man nods politely and in perfect Persian says, “Forgive me, it was my fault. I was following you.”
Startled, Jalal asks, “But why?”
“I’m hungry, aren’t you,” the man says. “May I buy you a kabob? I will explain while we eat.”
As they devour the tender kabobs, the foreigner continues. “My name is Eardley Pickwick,” he says. “Originally from England.”
Jalal nods.
“I am presently a translator for the court. It seems that diplomatic relations with my country have created a demand for persons fluent in both Persian and English. As I was born and raised in England, I have the advantage of understanding my people’s customs and politics.”
“Are you Christian?”
“Let’s just say… I’ve seen the error of all religions, so I have none at present.”
“How did you come to be in Persia?”
“Originally, I was brought here as a translator for another English gentleman, but when I discovered his true purpose—to which I strongly objected—I terminated my employment. Of England, I hold no fond memories or attachments, and I found that my services were needed here, so I stayed on.”
Jalal is finishing his kabob. He was hungrier than he had thought. Pickwick buys him another and they continue talking.
“You promised to explain why you were following me,” Jalal says.
“In a very few days you have caused quite a stir in Teheran. I heard about you, and finally found you. It was not difficult. I should say that you are not well liked by the clerics here.”
“I come to bring them truth, and they feel threatened by it.”
“Let me be blunt. After hearing you debate that insufferable mulla this afternoon, your ideas affected me deeply. Particularly your claim that God has delivered a new Qu’ran.”
“Those were not my words, nor my meaning.”
“Close enough. As a translator—and as a man who only today discovered he was in search of religion—I was hoping that you might let me have a look at this document… if it is in your possession, of course.”
This Englishman is quite transparent; Jalal quickly surmises that there is a hidden motive behind Eardley Pickwick’s request. The man is an opportunist. But then again, God sometimes uses unsuspecting people to further his cause.
“Thank you for the kabobs,” Jalal says.
“You’re very welcome.”
“As for your request, I’ve been instructed to deliver a copy of that tablet to the shah, but twice I’ve been turned away because I do not have ‘credentials.’ Unfortunately, I am just a poor mulla, not a dignitary.”
“Ahhh!” Pickwick says with delight. “Then perhaps we can assist each other. What a happy coincidence that I can deliver your tablet to the shah.”
“You have access to the shah?”
“Actually, to one of his advisers, who I am sure will deliver it personally to the shah at my request.”
“In that case I’m sure it would be permissible for me to present the document to this adviser, who is perhaps your employer.”
“I can arrange that.”
“But I must deliver it to your employer myself. I must place the document in his hands and ask him to give it to the shah. Nothing less is acceptable. If you are permitted to see the document after I deliver it, I have no objection. In this way, perhaps both of us can be satisfied.”
“Very well. I will make the arrangements.”
“I am staying at the…”
“Yes, I know,” Pickwick interrupts. “Stay there until I contact you again. You must remain available.”
That evening, Jalal finds sleep evasive. It seems that God had delivered an answer to his prayers, and yet he feels uneasy.
By mid-afternoon of the next day, Jalal has written and posted a letter to the Rasul revealing the outcomes of his mission so far. He is exhausted. Every joint and limb throbs with fatigue. But the day is not done.
Eardley Pickwick finds him strolling through the gardens in front of the madrisih.
“Come with me,” Pickwick says.
“Now?”
“Right now.”
Within an hour they have been escorted into the citadel, past four levels of guards, down a maze of walkways, through the doors of Golestan Palace, and into the glittering Hall of Mirrors. Pickwick mistakes Jalal’s silence as awe. “I’m sure you are overwhelmed by the majesty of these surroundings,” Pickwick says. “I was quite stunned the first time I gained entrance.”
Jalal is not awe-struck; certainly not by this meaningless and crass display of opulence. Most of it, he knows, is a mirage fluttering above a desert of national debt. Jalal also is not overcome by the political clout of the figure he is about to meet. By comparison to the events of this morning, this journey to the heart of the Qajar dynasty is a distasteful diversion. He longs instead for the sincere fellowship of the Rasul, and imagines the true majesty of…
Pickwick whispers into Jalal’s ear, “Bow deeply when you first greet the grand vizier,” he says.
The grand vizier!
Perhaps Jalal has misjudged this Englishman. It is common knowledge that the grand vizier is the power behind the throne.
They approach a short, squat man who stands with his back to them. The man swims in heavy ceremonial robes. A tall conical cap towers above his head. As the grand vizier hears footsteps approaching, he turns and gestures graciously for his guests to forego the normal formalities.
“So you are the man who has been preaching in our streets about a new religious Revelation,” Haji Mirza Aqasi says. His eyes run up and down this dust-covered figure in white. He seems amused. “I understand you have something for the shah. A tablet—am I correct?”
“The author of this tablet instructed me to deliver it personally to the shah.”
“May I see it?”
Jalal reaches into his satchel and removes the scroll. “It is very important that the shah receive this document at the earliest possible time.”
“Yes, yes, I understand. Everyone’s message is the most important one in the world. Well, I can assure you that I will hand your message to the shah myself.” Aqasi holds out his hand for the scroll but Jalal merely stares at him. `
“I must have your word on this,” Jalal says.
Aqasi bristles with anger.
Pickwick reflexively backs away; he has experienced the concussion of the Aqasi’s explosions.
After a deep breath, though, Aqasi smiles weakly and says, “You have my word. The shah will have your tablet no later than tomorrow. Come now—the scroll.”
Jalal hands the scroll to Aqasi. As possession of it changes hands, he sees a fleeting flicker of fear on the grand vizier’s face immediately followed by a smirk of victory.
So this is the new Qu’ran, is it?” Aqasi says.
“It contains a message for the shah. I am sure he will understand it.”
“I am certain of that.” Suddenly the grand vizier wheels to his left and marches from the room without another word.
“The audience is over,” Pickwick says.
Late the same evening, Pickwick is summoned to the personal chamber of Aqasi who has been studying the tablet.
“You did well to obtain this treasonous tract for me,” he tells Pickwick. “It is even worse than I had feared. The author has the gall to ask Muhammad Shah to convert and assist his cause. In his view, the shah’s authority to govern is subservient to this new religion. Even worse, this imbecile attacks me.”
“By name?”
“By title. This is treason—and blasphemy.”
“Do you want to have the messenger arrested?”
“The man is intoxicated by this heresy. He will never reveal the author’s identity,. Let him go. Perhaps he will lead us to the mastermind of this plot.”
“You think it is political rather than religious?”
“Everything comes down to power. And in Persia, r
eligion is power. If we ignore it, this ripple of insurrection will become a tidal wave that can sweep us from power. On the other hand, if we can identify the fool behind this tablet and support the clergy in actions against him, we can consolidate our power and place the mullas clearly in our debt.” He shows a sinister smile that chills Pickwick. “The Qajars and the clerics have not been on the same side for a long time.”
Pickwick despises this man and dreads his role in the persecutions to come, but he fears leaving Aqasi’s service even more. He has learned too much about Aqasi. And Aqasi knows that Pickwick had assisted Herbert Eaton in the assassination of Mirza Hasan Qasim. Eaton had escaped. Pickwick had not; he struck a bargain with Aqasi.
“May I read the tablet?” Pickwick asks calmly.
“Of course,” Aqasi says. “There are no secrets between us.”
Chapter 4
Danush, the youngest disciple, has become the Rasul’s closest confidant. On most occasions, words are not required for Danush to understand the Rasul’s emotions and needs. Danush feels warmed by the Rasul’s presence and is continually astonished at his master’s composure in the face of a gathering threat.
Despite the Rasul’s admonitions to keep his identity secret, some of the Letters have revealed too much. Shiraz has become the focal point for those seeking the one who claims to be the deputy of the Qa’im. Rumors have pointed toward a young merchant in Shiraz, known to his small band of disciples as the Rasul.
Already the young man’s tablet has stimulated wide discussion and fierce debate. The message is seen by some as a justification for open rebellion against unpopular governors. Others see in it the work of Satan and the need to defend the traditions of Islam at all costs. A few respond to the tablet’s call for spiritual renewal and seek ways to join the “new religion.” Riots have broken out in some towns and villages.
It is the season of the Hajj—the annual pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina. In the village of Jidda, the Rasul and his disciples Danush and Mubarak set out by camel on a journey of several days. About ten kilometers from Mecca they don the pilgrim’s attire and walk to the shrine, joining a hundred thousand other pilgrims at Masjid al-Haram, the sacred sanctuary of Islam. In this huge courtyard thousands of worshippers orbit around a large black cube known as the Kaaba, the object towards which all Muslims throughout the world turn during prayer. This flat-roofed building rises fifty feet from a narrow marble platform on mortared bases of blue-gray stone. Tradition holds that the Kaaba was built by the prophet Abraham as a landmark for the House of God. At one corner of the Kaaba is a sacred stone that some believe was delivered by the angel Gabriel.
Ollie's Cloud Page 45
