Kader Abdolah - The King

The woman put her hand over her mouth and was silent.

‘Take your chador off. We want to get a better look at your face,’ said the shah. The young woman was not especially beautiful.

The shah look at her with surprise and asked, ‘Are you one of our wives?’

‘Yes,’ she said. Her eyes were red from crying.

‘That’s impossible. You’re not our type of woman.’

She began to cry louder.

‘When did we see you for the first time?’ asked the shah.

‘About three years ago,’ the woman answered.

‘Where?

‘When you came to us in the village. I was standing in the crowd and you pointed to me. I was brought here and now I’ve been waiting for a very long time.’

‘Waiting? For what?’

‘For you,’ said the woman.

‘For us? Where were we then? We are often in the harem.’

‘You were with me twice, that was all. My mother has tried several times to take me back home, but Khwajeh Bashi wouldn’t let her in. Today I heard her call my name. I fled to the roof and then I jumped.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ said the shah.

It was Khwajeh Bashi. He had a golden hookah bowl in his hand.

‘What’s that?’ asked the shah.

‘The woman stole this golden bowl from your hookah. It was hidden under her clothing. I found it outside on the step,’ he said, handing the bowl to the shah.

The shah sent Khwajeh Bashi away and held the golden bowl out in front of the woman.

‘Why did you steal the bowl from our hookah?’

She was silent.

‘We asked you why you stole our golden bowl.’

‘I … I … I didn’t steal it. I only wanted to take something of the shah’s back home with me. When I ran to the roof I saw your hookah and I grabbed the bowl. I wanted to take it as proof — proof that I had lived in the palace, that I belonged to the shah and that I was his wife.’

The shah was touched by her words. He took the golden bowl in his hand, and with the other hand behind his back he walked round the room. At a certain point he turned to the woman and said gently, ‘You are not the sort of woman we are attracted to. Why did we point to you and bring you back to our palace?’

‘I was pretty then,’ said the woman frankly. ‘I was just the kind of woman you desired. But these past years in the harem have made me gaunt and ugly.’

The shah walked up to her, leaned over a bit, stroked her head and ran the back of his hand over her left cheek, and played with the neckline of her blouse. The woman shivered with excitement. He took three large gold coins from his jacket pocket and tossed them onto her lap, whispering, ‘We have seen you. Go back home with your mother, if you like.’

A smile appeared on the woman’s face. Now he could see something of her former beauty.

The shah opened the door, and the women who were eavesdropping scattered in every direction. He pretended he hadn’t seen them and walked into the gardens as if nothing at all had happened. He thought for a moment that the woman’s jumping was a sign, that the people were dissatisfied because the shah would have nothing to do with them, and that he should give them their freedom. But he promptly dismissed such thoughts. The people did not need more freedom. What the people needed was a leader. And that leader was the shah.

The British dared not show their faces outside the walls of the port cities. As soon as they did they came under fire.

The vizier, who was seriously wounded, was being cared for in the castle of the tribal leader. The local physician succeeded in removing the bullets from his body. After a month of treatment the vizier was still weak and unable to stand. When he was finally given permission to leave his sickbed he tried to walk by leaning against the castle’s long walls. He was well looked after by the devoted old women of the Bakhtiari tribe, and gradually he regained his strength. Early one morning, much to everyone’s delight, he even managed to heave himself onto his horse and cautiously pick his way across the pastureland.

For the vizier this period was a low point. He had to think of a way to get the British out of the country. With the help of a few powerful men he managed to raise a small army of martyrs. He told the warriors they would have to fight the mightiest country in the world with their daggers and outdated weapons, but that this had been decreed by history. He emphasised that while a victory was impossible, the whole aim of the mission was to torment the occupying forces. The martyrs were ready for anything.

When the vizier was sufficiently recovered he and his martyrs advanced on Bandar Abbas. Any confrontation with the enemy was prevented by the enormous barricades that the British had erected in the harbour area and by the artillery in the hills.

‘Be patient and impede the enemy wherever you can,’ the vizier instructed his warriors. ‘Your only weapon is waiting, waiting and waiting some more.’

Indeed it was time that was Britain’s Achilles heel. The factories in England were gasping for fuel, while millions of litres of crude oil lay unused in the Persian soil. England was in a hurry.

But the dangerous situation in the Persian desert was keeping the British from getting any closer to the sites they had considered for further soil research. The martyrs lay in wait day and night among the tall date palms, their guns in hand, or they sat motionless with their daggers in the mud.

The British thought their ships were safe in the Persian Gulf, but more and more of the vizier’s men were willing to take to the water and jeopardise their lives by climbing onto the ships in the dark of night.

Stories of the warriors’ heroic deeds spread throughout the region and heartened the inhabitants of the occupied port cities. The resistance gained wider and wider support. The British could no longer go out at night without risk.

The British realised they would have to make use of their experiences in India. They would have to negotiate with the Persians. Long-term security and stability were essential if they were to keep on searching for oil and digging wells, guaranteeing the supply of black gold to England. To everyone’s astonishment the British unexpectedly withdrew from both port cities. They sat in their big cargo ships in the Persian Gulf and waited for instructions from London. The prayers of millions of people in the mosques had been granted. The vizier had scored a success.

Late one afternoon diplomats from the British Foreign Office paid a visit to the residence of the Persian representative in London. They had been meeting more frequently lately. The Persian representative received them with tea and refreshments, and they sat down at the table to see how England and Persia might do business.

Shortly thereafter the vizier received a telegram that had been sent from a British ship. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the unfamiliar typescript. He picked up his glasses and read the report. Then, without delay, he sent a message to the shah.

Glory be to God, He who possesses exalted power and might. He is all-knowing, and nothing is hidden from His eyes — not anything that is whispered, nor anything that is concealed through silence. He sees all, and nothing exceeds his power, neither on earth nor in heaven. He is the ruler of all. The shah is the first to whom the vizier may send these glad tidings. We have reached an accord with England concerning a ceasefire. The British are prepared to discuss both Herat and the raw materials in the south. Next week we will speak with a British delegation in Bandar Abbas. The shah will be immediately informed as soon as anything concrete has been achieved.