Kader Abdolah - The King

‘We’ve got to find him, even if he slithers into a hole like a snake,’ the vizier told his officers.

The vizier ordered a search of all the houses and farms in the vicinity. After a few days they discovered the Báb hiding in a well at a goat farm. They pulled him out and took him back to the city in chains. There they propped him up backwards on an old donkey and rode him through the streets of Shiraz to show the inhabitants that he was not a saint but a false prophet. After that the vizier took the Báb to Tehran and threw him into prison. He put a heavy lock on the door with his own hands, handed the key to the head of the prison and said, ‘Feed him and treat him well. He must be kept alive.’

When Shah Naser was informed that the Báb was now sitting in a jail cell in Tehran, he wanted to see him. The coming of the messiah had been the source of inspiration for all the great Persian tales. After all the things that had been said about the Báb, the shah wanted to marvel at the ‘false prophet’ up close.

One day in the late afternoon he rode to the prison with an armed escort. Carrying a torch the prison supervisor led him to the cell. They went down several dark, damp corridors until they came to a room that was so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face without a torch.

The supervisor went down a few more steps, pointed to a spot at the end of the corridor and handed the torch to the shah. The shah produced a couple of deliberate coughs and walked on hesitantly. He saw the iron bars, but he could not make out the Báb in the darkness. Then he held the torch aloft and saw a silhouette. A man in torn clothing was manacled to the wall with a heavy iron chain. His green scarf glittered in the torchlight like a riddle. The shah took another step forward. There was a momentary flash of lightning in the Báb’s eyes. He had recognised the king.

‘The messiah,’ whispered the shah.

With childish fascination the shah touched the iron bars and whispered again, ‘The messiah.’

Suddenly the Báb drew closer and spat in the shah’s face. The shah recoiled, wiped the spittle away with his sleeve and shouted, ‘String him up!’

The next day the Báb, the false messiah, was hung from a gallows before the great gate of Tehran. His green scarf fluttered over his shoulder.

The tsar received Mahdolia in his palace, and during one of their talks he revealed to her the message that the Russian delegation had planned to tell the shah at Sheikh Aqasi’s country home.

The talks with the tsar were encouraging. Mahdolia had regained his trust. She spent two weeks on an estate outside Moscow, and whenever she left the estate to take a stroll in the city she was accompanied by a group of older ladies from the Russian royal family.

Her plans to return to her homeland were hindered by a heavy snowfall that struck the northern part of Russia. The roads were covered with a thick white blanket. The temperature plummeted, and no one dared venture out on the roads. Mahdolia was forced to remain indoors until the snow began to melt.

In Tehran winter was still far off. The shah walked through his palace in a panic. Sharmin had not shown her face that night, which had never happened before. She would walk through the palace and the gardens, but she always came back to the hall of mirrors to sit at the window.

When Sharmin failed to show up the shah was unable to sleep. He spent the night wandering the corridors, peeking into all the rooms and calling her name. He was afraid he might find her dead somewhere. He searched through dark storerooms and under old cupboards and couches, but she was nowhere to be found.

The next day he sent out the guards, but there was no trace of Sharmin anywhere. Tired and disappointed the shah lay in bed and listened to the outdoor noises. The wild cats were making a racket on the roofs of the palace. Had they seduced Sharmin? Would she have chosen the warmth of a feral cat over the warmth of her master’s arms?

The caterwauling of the cats drove the shah to distraction. He got out of bed and went out to the courtyard. When he reached the pool he called out, ‘Sharmin, are you there?’

The guards saw him. The head of the guards asked if he could be of any help.

‘Bring us a torch!’ ordered the shah.

The guard did what was he was told.

Torch in hand the shah climbed the stairs leading up to the roof. The cats, who saw the shah coming towards them, jumped to the other roofs of the palace. There must have been at least a hundred of them. The shah had never seen them in a group like this before. During the daytime each cat went his own way, but in the evening they all gathered together. Astonished, the shah held the torch aloft. The fat wild cats regarded the palace as their own territory, and each day they feasted on leftovers from the harem and the palace kitchen. These were the descendants of the cats that had been living on the roofs of the palace for generations. The animals knew where the borders were drawn. They never entered the palace; the roofs, the back garden of the harem and the rubbish shed at its far end were their domain. Now, face to face with the shah, they knew they were not to get any closer and that they had to behave themselves.

‘Sharmin!’ the shah shouted. The cats flew in every direction. Sharmin did not appear.

Back in his bedroom the shah could not bear the empty spot at his feet. He rang his little bell and cried, ‘Taj!’

Rapid footsteps told him that the chamberlain was on his way to fetch the shah’s daughter.

Taj Olsultan was still living with her servant in a separate apartment at the end of the harem, which had its own entrance to the gardens. The shah continued to pay regular visits to her classroom, where she was tutored by the French woman. An experienced statesman came to teach Taj the history of the country, but it was the shah himself who told her about events that had taken place during the rule of his father and grandfather.

‘Remember everything. As princess you must know these things.’

The secrets that the shah shared with her strengthened the tie between father and daughter, but they also caused her to worry about his health and well-being.

Taj Olsultan had quickly slipped into a dressing gown when the chamberlain told her the shah was having another sleepless night.

‘What is it, Shah-my-Father?’ she asked as soon as she saw him.

He embraced her and kissed her long dark hair. ‘Sharmin is gone.’

‘What do you mean, gone?’ asked the girl with surprise.

‘I’ve looked everywhere.’

‘She’s bound to come back. You’re tired. You really must sleep,’ said Taj.

‘I can’t sleep,’ replied the shah.

‘I’ll read to you then,’ she said, and she put the shah to bed.

Taj picked up a French book from the stack on the bedside table. She sat on the edge of the bed and began reading from the page where the shah had made a dog-ear.

‘“ La vicomtesse était liée depuis trois ans avec un des plus célèbres et des plus riches seigneurs portugais, le marquis d’Ajuda-Pinto … ”’

But the shah’s mind was elsewhere. He sat up and said, ‘The women of the harem have a hand in Sharmin’s disappearance.’

Taj pushed him back gently and continued reading.

‘“ C’était une de ces liaisons innocentes qui ont tant d’attraits pour les personnes ainsi liées … ”’

‘They take away everything that is dear to me,’ said the shah, and he got out of bed.

‘Where are you going, Father?’ asked Taj, putting the book back on the bedside table.

‘I still don’t have an heir. No son of those women could ever succeed me.’