by Amin Maalouf
However, as she reached the door of the sitting room she slowed down leaving the man to distance himself from her. Then she turned towards me and stated, in a loud voice and in a French purer than mine:
‘You never know, our paths might meet!’
Whether it was said in politeness or as a promise, her words were accompanied by a mischievous smile which I saw as much as defiance as sweet reproach. Then, as I was getting up out of my seat with the utmost awkwardness, and while I was stumbling about trying to regain both my balance and my composure, she remained immobile, her look enveloping me with amused benevolence. I could not manage to utter a single word. She disappeared.
I was still standing by the window, trying to make out amongst the trees the coach carrying her off when a voice brought me back to reality.
‘Forgive me for having kept you waiting.’
It was Jamaladin. His left hand held an extinguished cigar; he held out his right hand and shook mine with warmth and friendship.
‘My name is Benjamin Lesage. I have come on the recommendation of Henri Rochefort.’
I handed him my letter of introduction, but he slipped it into his pocket without looking at it. He opened his arms, gave me a hug and a kiss on the forehead.
‘Rochefort’s friends are my friends. I speak to them with an open heart.’
Putting his arm around my shoulder, he escorted me towards a wooden staircase which led upstairs.
‘I hope that my friend Henri is keeping well. I heard that his return from exile was a real triumph. With all those Parisians lining the streets and shouting his name, he must have felt great happiness! I read the account in l’Intransigeant. He sends it to me regularly although it reaches me late. Reading it brings back to my ears the sounds of Paris.’
Jamaladin spoke laboured but correct French. Sometimes I prompted the word he seemed to be looking for. When I was right, he thanked me and if not, he continued to rack his brains, contorting his lips and chin slightly. He carried on:
‘I lived in Paris in a room which was dark but which opened up on to a vast world. It was a hundred times smaller than this house but I was less cramped there. I was thousands of kilometres from my people but I worked for their advancement more efficiently than I can do here or in Persia. My voice was heard from Algiers to Kabul. Today only those who honour me with their visits can hear me. Of course they are always welcome, particularly if they come from Paris.’
‘I do not actually live in Paris. My mother is French and my name sounds French, but I am an American. I live in Maryland.’
This seemed to amuse him.
‘When I was expelled from India in 1882 I stopped off in the United States. Can you imagine that I even envisaged asking for American citizenship. You are smiling! Many of my fellow Muslims would be scandalised. The Sayyid Jamaladin, apostle of the Islamic renaissance, descendant of the Prophet, taking the citizenship of a Christian country? However, I was not ashamed of it and moreover I have told this story to my friend Wilfrid Blunt and authorized him to quote it in his memoirs. My justification is quite simple: there is no single corner of the whole of the Muslim world where I can live free from tyranny. In Persia I tried to take refuge in a sanctuary which traditionally benefits from full immunity, but the monarch’s soldiers came in and dragged me away from the hundreds of visitors who were listening to me, and with one unfortunate exception, almost no one moved or dared to protest. There is no religious site, university or shed where one can be protected from the reign of the arbitrary!‘
He feverishly stroked a painted wooden globe which rested on a low table before adding:
‘It is worse in Turkey. Am I not an official guest of Abdul-Hamid, the Sultan and Caliph? Did he not send me letter after letter, reproaching me, as the Shah did, for spending my life amongst infidels? I should have just replied: if you had not transformed our beautiful countries into prisons, we would have no need to find refuge with the Europeans! But I weakened and let myself be tricked. I came to Constantinople and you can see the result. In spite of the rules of hospitality, that half-mad man holds me prisoner. Lately I sent a message to him, saying “If I am your guest, give me permission to depart! If I am your prisoner, put shackles on my feet and throw me into a dungeon!” However, he did not deign to respond. If I had the citizenship of the United States, France or Austria-Hungary, never-mind that of Russia or England, my consul would have marched straight into the grand vizir’s office without knocking and he would have obtained my freedom within a half-hour. I tell you, we, the Muslims of this century, are orphans.’
He was breathless but made an effort to add:
‘You may write up everything that I have just said except that I called Sultan Abdul-Hamid half-mad. I do not wish to lose every last chance of flying out of this cage one day. Besides, it would be a lie since that man is almost completely mad, a dangerous criminal, pathologically suspicious and completely under the sway of his Aleppine astronomer.’
‘Have no fear, I shall write nothing of all this.’
I took advantage of his request to clear up a misunderstanding.
‘I must tell you that I am not a journalist. Monsieur Rochefort, who is my grandfather’s cousin, recommended that I come and see you, but the aim of my visit is not to write an article about Persia nor about yourself.’
I revealed to him my interest in the Khayyam manuscript and my intense desire to be able to leaf through it one day and to study its contents closely. He listened to me with unflagging attention and evident joy.
‘I am obliged to you for snatching me away from my woes for some moments. The subject that you mention has always gripped me. Have you read in Monsieur Nicholas’ introduction to the Rubaiyaat, the story of the three friends, Nizam al-Mulk, Hassan Sabbah and Omar Khayyam? They were radically different men, each of whom represented an eternal aspect of the Persian soul. Sometimes I have the impression that I am all three of them at the same time. Like Nizam al-Mulk I dream of establishing a great Muslim state, even if it were led by an unbearable Turkish sultan. Like Hassan Sabbah, I sow subversion over all the lands of Islam, I have disciples who would follow me to the death …’
He broke off, worried, then pulled himself together, smiled and carried on:
‘Like Khayyam, I am on the look-out for the rare joys of the present moment and I compose verses about wine, the cupbearer, the tavern and the beloved; like him, I mistrust false zealots. When, in certain quatrains, Omar speaks about himself, I sometimes believe that he is depicting me: “On our gaudy Earth there walks a man, neither rich nor poor, neither believer nor infidel, he courts no truth, venerates no law … On our gaudy Earth, who is this brave and sad man?”’
Having said that, he relit his cigar and became pensive. A small piece of glowing ash landed on his beard. He brushed if off with a practised gesture, and started speaking again:
‘Since my childhood I have had an immense admiration for Khayyam the poet, but above all the philosopher, the free-thinker. I am amazed that it took him so long to conquer Europe and America. You can imagine how happy I was to have in my possession the original book of the Rubaiyaat written in Khayyam’s own hand.’
‘When did you have it?’
‘It was offered to me fourteen years ago in India by a young Persian who had made the trip with the sole aim of meeting me. He introduced himself to me with the following words: “Mirza Reza, a native of Kirman, formerly a merchant in the Teheran Bazaar. Your obedient servant.” I smiled and asked him what he meant by saying “formerly a merchant”, and that is what led him to tell me his story. He had just opened a used clothing business when one of the Shah’s sons came to buy some merchandise, shawls and furs, to the value of eleven hundred toumans – about one thousand dollars. However, when Mirza Reza presented himself the next day to the Prince’s to be paid, he was insulted, beaten and even threatened with death if he took it into his head to collect what he was owed. It was then that he decided to come and see me. I was teaching in Calcutta.
“I have just understood,” he told me, “that in a country run in an arbitrary fashion one cannot earn an honest living. Was it not you who wrote that Persia needs a Constitution and a Parliament? Consider me, from this day on, your most devoted disciple. I have shut my business and left my wife in order to follow you. Order and I shall obey!”’
In mentioning this man Jamaladin seemed to be suffering.
‘I was moved but embarrassed. I am a roving philosopher, I have neither house nor homeland and have avoided marrying in order that I would have no one in my charge. I did not want this man to follow me as if I were the Messiah or the Redeemer, the Mahdi. To dissuade him I said: “Is it really worth leaving everything, your business and your family, over a wretched question of money?” His face closed up, he did not respond, but went out.’
‘He returned only six months later. From an inside pocket he took out a small golden box, inlaid with precious stones, which he held out to me, open.’
‘Look at this manuscript. How much do you think it could be worth?’
‘I leafed through it, then discovered its contents as I trembled with emotion.’
‘The authentic text of Khayyam; those pictures, the embellishment! It is priceless!’
‘More than eleven hundred tomans?’
‘Infinitely more!’
‘I give it to you. Keep it. It was to remind you that Mirza Reza did not come to you to recover his money, but to regain his pride.’
‘That was how,’ Jamaladin continues, ‘the manuscript fell into my possession and that I could not be separated from it. It came with me to the United States, England, France, Germany, Russian and then to Persia. I had it with me when I withdrew into the sanctuary of Shah Abdul-Azim. That is where I lost it.’
‘Do you know where it could be at this moment?’
‘I told you, when I was apprehended only one man dared to stand up to the Shah’s soldiers and that was Mirza Reza. He stood up, shouted, cried and called the soldiers and all present cowards. He was arrested and tortured and spent more than four years in the dungeons. When he was released he came to see me in Constantinople. He was so ill that I made him go the French hospital in town where he stayed until last November. I tried to keep him longer, lest he be detained again on his return, but he refused. He said he wanted to retrieve the Khayyam Manuscript and that nothing else interested him. There are some people who drift from one obsession to the next.’
‘What is your feeling? Does the Manuscript still exist?’
‘Only Mirza Reza can give you that information. He believes he can find that soldier who spirited it away when I was arrested. He hoped to take it back from him. In any case, he was determined to go and see him and spoke of buying it back with God knows what money.’
‘If it is a question of retrieving the Manuscript, money is no problem!’
I had spoken with fervour. Jamaladin stared at me and frowned. He leant toward me as if he were about to listen to my heart.
‘I have the impression that you are no less fixated on this Manuscript than the unfortunate Mirza. In that case, there is only one path for you to follow. Go to Teheran! I cannot guarantee that you will uncover the book there, but, if you know how to look, perhaps you will find other traces of Khayyam.’
My spontaneous response seemed to confirm his diagnosis:
‘If I obtain a visa, I’ll be ready to go tomorrow.’
‘That is not an obstacle. I shall give you a note for the Persian consul in Baku. He will look after all the necessary formalities and even provide you with transport as far as Enzeli.’
My expression must have betrayed some worry. Jamaladin was amused by that.
‘Doubtless you are wondering: How can I give a recommendation from an outlaw to a representative of the Persian government? You should know that I have disciples everywhere, in every town, in all circles, even in the monarch’s close entourage. Four years ago, when I was in London, I and an American friend published a newspaper which was sent off to Persia in discreet little bundles. The Shah was alarmed by that. He summoned the Minister of Post and ordered him to put an end to this newspaper’s circulation, no matter what it took. The minister ordered the customs officers to intercept all the subversive packages at the frontier and send them on to his house.
He drew on his cigar and the smoke was scattered by a burst of laughter.
‘What the Shah did not know,’ Jamaladin continued, ‘was that his Minister of Post was one of my most faithful disciples and that I had entrusted him with distributing the newspaper as best he could.’
Jamaladin was chuckling as three visitors sporting blood-red felt fezzes arrived. He arose, greeted and kissed them and invited them to be seated and exchanged a few words with them in Arabic. I guessed that he was explaining to them who I was, and begging their forgiveness for a few moments more. He came back toward me.
‘If you are determined to set off for Teheran, I will give you some letters of introduction. Come tomorrow, they will be ready. Above all do not be afraid. No one will think of searching an American.’
The next day three brown envelopes were waiting for me. He laid them in my hand, open. The first was for the consul in Baku and the second for Mirza Reza. As he gave me that one, he made a comment:
‘I must warn you that this man is unbalanced and obsessive. Do not spend more time with him than you must. I have much affection for him, he is more sincere, more faithful and doubtless purer than all my disciples, but he is capable of the worst blunders.’
He sighed and dug his hand into the pocket of the wide pantaloons he was wearing under his white tunic.
‘Here are ten gold pounds. Give them to him from me; he no longer has anything and perhaps he is hungry, but he is too proud to beg.’
‘Where will I find him?’
‘I have not the slightest idea. He no longer has a house or a family and he roams from place to place. That is why I am giving you this third letter addressed to another quite different young man. He is the son of the richest trader in Teheran, and although he is only twenty and burns with the same fire as we all do, he is still even-tempered and ready to debate the most revolutionary ideas with the smile of a satisfied child. I sometimes reproach him for not being very oriental. You will see, beneath his Persian clothing there is English cool, French ideas and a more anti-clerical spirit than that of Monsieur Clemenceau. His name is Fazel. It is he who will take you to Mirza Reza. I have charged Fazel with keeping an eye on him, as much as possible. I do not think that he can stop him committing his acts of folly, but he will know where to find him.’
I stood up to leave. He bad me a fond farewell and kept hold of my hand in his own.
‘Rochefort tells me in his letter that you are called Benjamin Omar. In Persia only use the name Benjamin. Never say the word Omar.’
‘But it is Khayyam’s name!’
‘Since the sixteenth century, when Persia converted to Shiism, that name has been banned. It could cause you much trouble. If you try to identify with the Orient, you could find yourself caught up in its quarrels.’
I made an expression of regret and consolation, a sign of impotence. I thanked him for his advice and made to leave, but he caught hold of me:
‘One last thing. Yesterday you met a young person here as she was getting ready to leave. Did you speak to her?’
‘No. I had no occasion to.’
‘She is the Shah’s grand-daughter, Princess Shireen. If, for whatever reason, you find all the doors shut, get a message to her and remind her that you saw her here. One word from her will be enough to overcome many obstacles.’
CHAPTER 29
On board a ship to Trebizond, the Black Sea was calm, too calm. The wind blew only lightly and for hours on end one could contemplate only the same piece of coast, the same rock or the same Anatolian copse. It would have been wrong of me to complain, I needed some peace and quiet given the arduous task that I had to accomplish: to memorise the whole book of Persian-French dialogue wri
tten by Monsieur Nicolas, Khayyam’s translator. I had resolved to speak to my hosts in their own language. I was not unaware of the fact that in Persia, as in Turkey, many of the intellectuals, the merchants and the high officials spoke French. Some even knew English. However, if one wanted to move outside the restricted circle of the palaces and the legations, and travel outside the main cities or in their seedier districts, it had to be done in Persian.
The challenge stimulated and amused me. I delighted in discovering affinities with my own language, as well as with various Romance languages. Father, mother, brother, daughter in Persian were ‘pedar’, ‘madar’ ‘baradar’ and ‘dokhtar’, and the common Indo-european roots can hardly be better illustrated. Even in naming God, the Muslims of Persia say ‘Khoda’, a term much closer to the English ‘God’ or the German ‘Gott’ than to ‘Allah’. In spite of this example, the predominate influence is that of Arabic which is exercised in a curious way: many Persian words can be replaced arbitrarily by their Arabic equivalent. It is even a form of cultural snobbery, much appreciated by intellectuals, to pepper their speech with terms, or with whole phrases, in Arabic – a practice of which Jamaladin was particularly fond.
I resolved myself to apply myself to Arabic later, but for the moment I had enough on my plate trying to understand Monsieur Nicholas’ texts, which apart from a knowledge of Persian was providing me with useful information about the country. It was full of conversations such as:
‘Which products could one export from Persia?’
‘Shawls from Kirman, fine pearls, turquoise, carpets, tobacco from Shiraz, silks from Mazanderan, leeches and cherrywood pipes.’
‘When travelling, should a cook be taken along?’
‘Yes, in Persia one cannot move without a cook, a bed, carpets and servants.’
