Why a return to London had ever seemed like a good idea still confounds Oliver as he makes his way by carriage to the George and Vulture to meet Jonathon for lunch. In the months since his return, Oliver has seldom dined out, preferring to seclude himself in his mansion except for an occasional mission: a Turkoman-like raid on the local clergy. He has exposed the folly and hypocrisy of a half-dozen London priests; but even before his conquests, these small-time sinners had been too remote from God for Oliver to extract any satisfaction. It is God that he wants to punish. These vain, deluded agents of God in sparkling hats and satin robes do not even provide good sport!
As summer draws to an end, Oliver mellows. His rage at the clergy has grown tepid. Only as he prepares for bed each evening—as he studies the photographs of Mary Rogers and his wife, and the illustration of his mother on the cover of her book—does he feel the sting of anger. If he did not find pleasure in this pain he would hide the pictures, but instead he keeps them on his nightstand to remind him of his goal to punish God. Unfortunately, he has found no worthy targets on this earthly plain.
All this changes, however, one evening in late August when Oliver picks up the day’s edition of the Times and reads:
MOHAMMEDAN SCHISM. -- A new sect has lately set itself up in Persia, at the head of which is a merchant who had returned from a pilgrimage to Mecca, and proclaimed himself a successor of the Prophet. The way they treat such matters at Shiraz appears in the following account (June 23): -- Two persons being heard repeating their profession of faith according to the form prescribed by the impostor, were apprehended, tried, and found guilty of unpardonable blasphemy. They were sentenced to lose their beards by fire being set to them. The sentence was put into execution with all the zeal and fanaticism becoming a true believer in Mahomet.
Not deeming the loss of beards a sufficient punishment, they were further sentenced the next day, to have their faces blacked and exposed through the city. Each of them was led by a mirgazah (executioner), who had made a hole in his nose and passed through it a string, which he sometimes pulled with such violence that the unfortunate fellows cried out alternately for mercy from the executioner and for vengeance from Heaven.
It is the custom in Persia on such occasions for the executioners to collect money from the spectators, and particularly from the shopkeepers in the bazaar. In the evening when the pockets of the executioners were well filled with money, they led the unfortunate fellows to the city gate, and there turned them adrift. After which the mollahs at Shiraz sent men to Bushire, with power to seize the impostor, and take him to Shiraz, where, on being tried, he very wisely denied the charge of apostasy laid against him, and thus escaped from punishment.
Oliver knows that most readers of this article will dismiss the outrageous claim of this “merchant from Shiraz,” but Oliver shudders with the possibility that the Promised One, whom he and his best friend Jalal had dreamed of finding, had appeared at last. While Christians will certainly scoff at this “fairy tale,” Oliver hopes it is true, for if it is, then he has identified his quarry. If this Persian merchant speaks the truth, then Oliver knows how to punish God.
He will return to Persia. He will go home.
Chapter 7
The stream of visitors into the city of Kirmanshah, in the western mountains of Persia, takes everyone by surprise. Only three evenings previously, Tara and a small group of female companions—escorted by a ragtag band of armed believers—had entered the city under the watchful gaze of the residents.
Tara, the only female Living Letter, is a poetess renowned throughout Persia, but she is hated by the mullas for her views of women’s rights and challenges to their authority. Only weeks earlier she had been banished from Ottoman territory. News of this had arrived several days earlier, and two houses had been prepared for the travelers by local sympathizers. Each afternoon and evening since her arrival, from behind a curtain, Tara has recited her mystical verse to the enraptured, poetry-mad Persians, aroused each gathering with the teachings of the Rasul, and debated with unfeminine ferocity the city’s hostile clergy. These sessions, which had begun indoors, have now been forced outside by the size of the crowds.
For the past two weeks a young woman of sixteen named Zarrin has been visiting her cousins in Kirmanshah. Like Tara, Zarrin is fiercely independent, having already refused a distasteful marriage arranged with great pride and fanfare by her father. It is her defiance, in fact, that has brought her to this city. Humiliated by Zarrin’s rejection of his hand-picked mate—a garlic-breathed merchant twice her age—Zarrin’s father had banished her from the village, at least until the sting of his abasement passes.
Herded into a veiled pen near Tara’s curtain, Zarrin joins many other cloaked women in listening to the now-famous poetess. She is joyously transported by the passion of these verses and eagerly plucks the ripe revelations of the Rasul from the lips of Tara. Far from radical, as the clergy has labeled these teachings, Zarrin finds them to be seductively reasonable; it is the mullas’ sexist corruption of Islam that she finds extremist and absurd.
Several times during previous blistering debates with the mullas she had loudly cheered as Tara had vanquished her adversary with irrefutable arguments and elegant proofs. Each time that Zarrin had shouted, the other women had muzzled her with deafening hands, fearing retaliation.
Zarrin has never witnessed such an audacious public display of feminine power or such clear debunking of the mullas’ unsupportable propositions. Mortified and enraged by their inability to put this woman in her place, the defeated mullas always resort to curses and threats, juvenile taunts and coarse interruptions, but nothing diverts the attention of the crowds from the charismatic Tara.
By the fourth day of these outdoor events the audience has grown so large and partisan to Tara’s cause that even Zarrin begins to fear retaliation. She knows that the mullas will not continue to tolerate this unceasing flow of “heresy,” especially delivered, as it is, by a woman.
As Zarrin peeks through the purple and red drapery that shrouds the women’s section, she sees that for the first time there are no mullas present. She is certain they have not surrendered, and so she concludes they must be contriving some terrible revenge. Her heart begins to pound.
When the audience applauds a reading of one of Tara’s poems, Zarrin exits the women’s enclosure and orbits around the back until she finds Tara seated on a plain wooden chair behind her curtain. Tara smiles at the younger woman.
“Be careful, please,” Zarrin whispers. “I believe the mullas are meeting somewhere to plot against you.”
“No, my dear,” Tara whispers back. “They have finished their plans and are coming for me as we speak.”
Zarrin’s eyes flash. As she begins to gasp, a hand from behind firmly cups her mouth, capturing the sound. An older woman has followed Zarrin and calms her now with a gentle Sshhhh!
Smiling, Tara asks Zarrin, “My sister, what is your name?”
The hand slowly releases Zarrin’s mouth as she gives her name.
“Remember what you have seen and heard these past days,” Tara whispers. “Carry it in your heart, and tell others. I may not be free after this to speak out.”
“Then you must flee now!” Zarrin says.
“My mission is to teach, so I will teach as long as they let me. Now you have a mission, too. When I am silenced…”
The whisper is drowned in a sea of shouts as a gang of mullas invades the gathering. From behind the curtain, Zarrin and Tara can hear the clerics yelling scornfully at the men who are seated on the other side of the curtain. The screaming comes nearer, and then hands ripple the curtain.
A whiny voice calls out, “Cover yourself, woman!”
The meaning is clear. In a few seconds they are going to abduct Tara, who even now makes no effort to cover herself.
“Go, child!” Tara says to Zarrin. “Don’t let them find you with me.”
Zarrin flees just before local divines pull down the curtain. Th
e sight of Tara’s naked face horrifies them. One of the mullas, a man of great bulk, averts his eyes. The other two continue to drink in Tara’s beauty, unable to turn away. The fat mulla, seeing his awestruck companions paralyzed, chastises them: “You see, she tempts even you, the most upright and virtuous mullas in Kirmanshah.”
“Are men so feeble, “Tara says, “that they cannot look upon a woman’s face without lust? Yes, it is certainly better to veil this woman rather than expose your own perversity.”
Her eyes lower to focus on the fat mulla’s paunch. “I think you had best veil your supper as well to obscure the path to gluttony.”
Concealed just a few steps away, Zarrin chuckles.
Squinting to blur his vision and avoid irresistible temptation, the fat mulla angrily lurches toward Tara, pulls her black chador over her gleaming face, and orders his friends to seize her, which they do, the evil spell of seduction having now been broken.
From beneath her garment, Tara speaks again: “I will pray that you overcome your affliction. May God grant you even a small measure of self-control over the wicked impulses that seem to dominate you.”
This taunt is too much for the fat mulla, who throws Tara onto the ground and viciously kicks her. The others, perhaps mellowed by their glimpse of Tara’s mesmerizing beauty, pull him away.
Sitting up without help, Tara responds, “Perhaps you are ignorant of the Tradition that says, ‘The strong is not the one who overcomes the people by his strength, but the strong is the one who controls himself while in anger.’”
Ignoring her, the fat mulla roughly stands her up. “Take her away,” he commands. “The mujtahid will determine her punishment.” Tara’s arms are chained and she is led through a gathering that is now nearly two hundred strong.
A young man, who had been moved profoundly by Tara’s vivid account of the Rasul’s new revelation, removes a dagger from his cloak. He moves threateningly toward the mullas who are escorting Tara through the multitude of Tara’s admirers. Immediately, the crowd begins to buzz with anticipation and twenty other men begin to follow the knife-bearer.
Hurriedly, the mullas remove Tara from the hostile environment.
Zarrin watches with tears in her eyes. Four short days is all that she had been allowed to hear Tara’s stirring message of hope, and yet it had taken only minutes for that message to penetrate her heart. She remembers the words that Tara had spoken directly to her: “Carry it in your heart, and tell others.”
Zarrin prays that she may gain the courage of Tara.
Chapter 8
The British Ambassador to Persia, Justin Sheil, sometimes feels more like a social secretary than a diplomat. The dashing official with jet black hair and straight teeth—an oddity for an Englishman—had barely celebrated his thirty-fifth birthday in Teheran when the letter arrived at his office. Once again he is being called to perform the tedious task of introducing British visitors to the Qajar court. At times like this (and there are many of them) Sheil sees all too clearly why he was sent to Persia. A debt had been repaid to his influential father, a famous general now retired, in a manner that can do little damage to the Empire. All Sheil is required to do here is keep England visible and not stir the pot. He is the shah’s English babysitter, dangling baubles to distract him when necessary, pointing out ways that Persia can please its chimerical benefactor, and occasionally slapping the royal wrist to remind the shah that he is humiliatingly outranked by a woman, of all things—Queen Victoria, the ruler of an Empire immensely more powerful than beleaguered Persia.
Today, however, Lt. Col. Justin Sheil calmly escorts his three British guests to the palace. If not for the sway of the London Times, which had sent the letter of introduction, Sheil might not have bowed to this request. As it is, the Times may find reason to mention Sheil’s name.
Sheil makes small talk with Oliver Chadwick, who is dressed in a fine grey frock-coat, as are his companions, Jonathon and Isaac. They could be three English gentlemen strolling through a London park on a fine Sunday afternoon. Before entering the glittering hall of mirrors, the trousers of the three Englishmen are adorned with scarlet coverings from the knees to the ankles, customary emblems worn by all foreigners who have an audience with the shah.
Looking frail and bad-tempered, Muhammad Shah slumps on his tiered marble throne. Standing before him, watching the four Englishmen approach, is the sour grand vizier and a thin, gaunt boy of fifteen dressed in garish robes that look like a sappy costume from an English school’s version of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. This boy is Nasir al-Din, a boy who some believe will become the shah one day. The boy’s outfit is obviously meant to impress the visitors.
Another man stands facing Aqasi, his back to the audience. This man is attired in a simple green robe and wears no turban.
With a detectable bored tone, Sheil goes through the usual tedious formalities of praising the shah and introducing the very important visitors from England, stressing that Oliver represents the most influential newspaper in the British Empire, the London Times. It is mention of the paper that piques Aqasi’s attention, and his dark-rimmed, soulless eyes hungrily study Oliver.
It has come time for Oliver to speak, and Sheil makes it clear that he should address Aqasi, not the shah directly. Having seen Aqasi’s animated response to mention of the Times, Oliver decides to speak in English to strengthen that association.
“I am deeply honored that you have agreed to meet with us,” Oliver says.
The man in the green robe translates this into Persian. Aqasi nods without smiling and says in Persian, “We are always honored to have guests from your country. I know of your newspaper. It has not always been kind in its description of our country.”
The man in the green robe, still facing Aqasi, translates into English. Oliver understands the remark before the English words are spoken and uses this extra time to consider his response. It is true, he knows, that the Times on occasion—frequently, to be honest—characterizes Persians as either barbarians or children who need the guidance of a benevolent parent such as England. He had not expected Aqasi to be so knowledgeable about the Times. The grand vizier is no fool.
“I apologize for the misrepresentations,” Oliver says. “But please know that I am not the author of any of these distortions.” The translator translates, and Aqasi nods. An apology from an Englishman is rare, indeed; it is sweet music to a Persian’s ear.
“I have come here in part to pledge my support in correcting these false impressions,” Oliver continues, “and reporting back to England that the ancient wisdom and majesty of Persia has been born once again in the Qajars.”
As the translator translates, Sheil winces with disgust. The sickly shah, however, who until now has looked as though he might slip into a coma, suddenly perks up. Oliver thinks that a slight smile may be curling the edges of his lips.
Aqasi says, “Your assistance in correcting your newspaper and its readers would be most welcome.” He is seeing some advantage to be gained by this Englishman’s attitude, if he can be trusted.
Before the interpreter can translate Aqasi’s words, Ali begins speaking in Persian. “You may wonder as to my motives. It is quite simple. I am Persian. I was born in Bushruyih where my father was the kelauntar and a distant relative of Muhammad Shah. My heart is Persian, even though my employer is English.”
At first Aqasi is shocked, but then he smiles. “So you are Persian?” he says—more of a statement than a question. “And your friends?”
“I’m afraid not. Jonathon is a trusted associate, and Ishaq is my son.” He uses the Persian equivalent for the name Isaac.
“I see, but how is it that Ishaq does not bear a family resemblance?”
Ishaq boldly speaks up in Persian. “I am Ali’s adopted son. I was born in America,” he says. Nasir al-Din looks up at Ishaq, astonished at the young man’s facility with the Persian language and intrigued by Ishaq’s American heritage.
Aqasi nods at Ishaq and then turns back
to Ali, saying, “I cannot recall your father’s name. He must have served under our administration.”
“My father was Mirza Hasan Qasim. I am his son, Ali Qasim.”
Aqasi remembers the arrogant, undisciplined, troublesome Hasan Qasim. The man had been murdered, and Aqasi was glad. “I knew him,” Aqasi says.
“My father and I were not on close terms.”
“I found him unreliable and selfish.”
“So did I. And yet he is not the only unreliable one you have known.”
“You have only just arrived, and yet you know something that I do not?”
Oliver nods yes. “But only because you do not speak English. You see, the task of properly characterizing your interests to the English people is not well served by your translator, who has unreliably translated your words, and mine, in—shall we say—an undesirable way.”
The translator shifts his body nervously, glances at Aqasi.
“My translator is an Englishman. He should know English.”
“I am both Persian and English. Your translator embarrasses you.”
Suddenly the translator, Gordon Cranston, wheels to stare at Ali. His face is quivering. His eyes betray fear. Speaking English so Aqasi cannot understand, Gordon pleads, “Oliver, please, he may have me killed!”
“What are you doing here, Gordon?”
“The authorities in New York found out that I was embezzling the offerings of my tent meetings. I had to flee—surely you understand. I couldn’t return to England, not with the papers your grandmother had me sign. The attorneys would have turned me inside out if they found out I was in London. I hated India—always did. Persia was my second home.”
Ishaq recalls the dramatic scene in the great tent in New York State, and Gordon’s afflicted son, the one with Down Syndrome, and the mass “falling over” of hundreds of penitents. He looks up at Gordon and says, “What about Peter, your poor son?”
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