Kader Abdolah - The King

The vizier tried to buck up his troops. He hoped that the tribal leaders would come to their rescue in time, and his hope was confirmed. Now the British found themselves between two fires. A real battle broke out, with the vizier spurring his men on. Suddenly a British officer recognised him, aimed his pistol and fired three shots. Two of the bullets hit the vizier. Someone managed to get him on a horse and move him behind the front lines.

The local tribal leader took command and pursued the enemy deep into the night past the fields of date palms. When the new day broke there wasn’t a single British or Indian soldier to be seen.

England then sent its ships to the important southern port of Bandar Abbas and stormed the harbour. No Persian soldiers had been stationed there. Two reports were sent to the shah, neither of them good: ‘The vizier has been fatally wounded, and England is in control of the Persian Gulf.’

Before the crowing of the cock Mahdolia rode in her coach to the palace of the shah. She had been having trouble with her knees of late and could no longer walk long distances. She sought the support of the handrail and tried to pull herself upwards. The shah came to meet her and to offer his assistance. Still on the stairs Mahdolia threw her arms round him and wept, ‘O, my son. O, my poor king.’

‘Mother, where is your dignity?’ whispered the shah. ‘The guards are looking at us.’

‘Let them look, son. Our country is in need. I weep for the country, I weep for the shah,’ she said even louder.

Once in the conference room Mahdolia dropped into a chair with a sigh.

‘O, my son, if only I were dead I would not have to see you in this difficult situation,’ she whimpered.

The shah stood at the window, visibly moved.

‘Your silence is crushing me, son. Talk to me. Pour out your heart.’

‘What is there to say, Mother? My army is stuck in Herat. Our ports on the Persian Gulf are occupied and I haven’t got a bullet left to fire. What am I to do? I don’t trust anyone any more. You see, Mother, how the Russians have abandoned us? How they toyed with us? The tsar received you into his family. He spoke with you privately and then turned round and stuck a knife in my back.’

‘I don’t believe the tsar did this. He fought alongside us in Herat. You must look elsewhere for the cause. This plot was hatched within our own circles,’ said Mahdolia vindictively.

‘By whom?’

‘Don’t be naive, my son. By the vizier!’

‘Mother, stop this morbid spitefulness. I often think we have treated the vizier badly, and that he does not deserve it. I have sent him a letter and thanked him for his courage. The man is seriously wounded. He may die.’

‘He may be wounded, but dying is something else. Even that is intended to pull the wool over your eyes! Go out into the street. Put your ear to the ground. Then you’ll understand what your mother is talking about. Your army is stuck in Herat, the Persian Gulf has been taken, our nation is being threatened, but people are talking about the vizier. He’s become a hero, everyone is calling him the real king. Did anyone tell the shah? No, no one. No one dares tell you the truth. I am here, son, to remove the scales from your eyes. I am your mother, the only one who will not deceive you. The only reason I came was to comfort my child.’

The words of Mahdolia touched the shah. Tears ran down his cheeks. He turned to the window to hide his sorrow. The queen mother struggled out of her chair, hobbled to the king, took his hand, kissed it and said, ‘This country didn’t just drop into our lap. Great men from our tribe, men who came before you, held the country together with the edge of their swords. We will not give it up. The story of this ancient land is a long one. It did not begin with you, and it will not end with you. Stand tall and endure.’

The shah nodded without looking at her.

Mahdolia pulled her son closer and whispered, ‘Think carefully. Now it is your turn. It is your duty to save the throne. You must be as brutal as your grandfather was. Leave everything to the vizier for the time being. Give him the freedom to do as he likes. Let him be cheered as a hero by these thick-witted people. Then the shah must act. Later I shall return to tell you what to do. It will not be easy, but if everyone else abandons the shah someone must stand by him, and I am that person!’

The shah straightened his back and placed a gentle kiss on Mahdolia’s cheek. He led her outdoors. The fresh air did him good. He took a deep breath, breathed out again and said, ‘I thank you for coming, Mother.’

Mahdolia’s visit had lifted the shah out of the doldrums. He felt good again, and after so many sleepless nights he was able to get a proper night’s rest. When morning came he was ready for a hearty breakfast. As he ate he felt a poem taking shape in his head. Straightaway he called for a pen and paper.

He took his notebook, placed it on his knee and jotted down the poem in rough form before he forgot it. These were fragments that had come to him earlier when he was still in Herat, but because of the turbulent events they had slipped his mind. The poem was about the game of life, but he could not find the right words to make it rhyme. He wrote:

Kash mi-shod keh man azad budam

Chubi bar dast, pa bar rah budam

If only I were free like other men

I would walk away without a care, my stick in my hand.

Weary, I would take a nap in the shade of a tree

With my shoes beneath my head.

I would go away, away, far, far away

And one day I would come across a lovely peasant lass,

She would take me to her home

And there I would stay.

I would plough her fields,

I would hunt for her

And return with a gazelle on my back.

He was so engrossed in his poem that he didn’t hear the noise and the uproar in the courtyard. When he finally became aware of it he put his poem down and walked to the window. Almost all the women of the harem were standing in the courtyard. They were looking up at the roof and shouting, ‘Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Come down!’

The shah opened the window. ‘What’s going on?’

Not a single woman dared reply. Khwajeh Bashi, the harem overseer, pushed his way through the crowd of women and shouted, ‘A woman from the harem is up on the roof.’

‘What’s she doing there?’

‘She wants to jump because her mother is standing on the steps outside the palace.’

At that moment a woman’s scream was heard behind the palace walls.

‘Who was that?’ asked the shah.

‘The mother of the woman on the roof.’

‘What’s her mother doing here?’

‘She wants to take her daughter home.’

‘Why is she screaming then?’

‘She’s afraid her daughter will jump off the roof.’

‘Who is the daughter? Do we know her?’ shouted the shah.

‘She is one of your wives.’

The women of the harem were now shouting all at once, ‘Don’t do it! Don’t jump!’

But it was too late. The woman jumped from the roof and fell like a sack of flour beside her weeping mother. The woman wailed and ran out through the gate.

‘It’s a miracle. She’s still alive! She’s still alive!’

‘Bring the woman here!’ shouted the shah.

A few minutes later the woman, wrapped in a blanket, was brought to the hall of mirrors by two burly guards. The women outside strained to hear what the shah was saying to her.

‘Take off your niqab and stop crying.’

The woman took her niqab off, but she pulled her chador over her face and continued to sob quietly.

‘Stop that blubbering, I said!’