Kader Abdolah - The King

Respectfully yours, the vizier.

Since returning from Herat the shah spent a great deal of time in the barracks outside Tehran. He did not concern himself with the military activities there, but his presence gave everyone the impression that he was taking command of the armed forces. He sat in the war room and wrote poetry, and he had begun to record his memories of his stay in Herat. Usually he wrote in his diary in his own hand, but now he had engaged the services of a chronicler. Unconsciously he felt the need for a witness.

Writing always made the shah feel that he was working on something of significance, that he was writing history. He sensed that in the future he would be praised for his diaries, and that his pen would linger in the public memory longer than his other deeds. When he wrote he forgot everything. He enjoyed himself. And although he had a good style he envied the vizier his writing talent. He knew the man could do magic with words. When the shah received letters from him he sometimes paid more attention to the sentence structure than to the content of the text.

It was now the middle of the night. The shah, who had been sleeping poorly of late, decided to stay in bed and write in his diary. It was at about this time that the vizier’s messenger reached the shah’s palace. The head of the guards told the chamberlain that the shah was to be wakened straightaway. Gently the chamberlain knocked on the bedroom door. The shah dropped his pen and called out, ‘Who’s there?’

‘Your Majesty, a messenger from the south with something important,’ the man said.

The shah groped for his dressing gown in the dark. ‘Let him in. We’ll be right there.’

The chamberlain lit the candles of the lanterns in the hall of mirrors.

‘Thanks be to God. It is my good fortune to bring the shah this good news,’ said the messenger. He pulled an envelope out from under his clothing and handed it to the shah.

The shah walked over to a lantern on the mantelpiece, opened the letter and read it. A broad smile spread across his face, emphasised by the room’s light and shadows. He wanted to reward the messenger out of sheer happiness, but he had no coins in his dressing gown. It was not fitting that a man who had ridden hundreds of kilometres non-stop should be sent away empty-handed. He searched his pockets once again, but could find no coin. Then he took off his royal slippers and handed them to the messenger, who was so tired he could barely stand: ‘For you. Take them with you!’

The messenger, who had counted on a bit of money, didn’t know how to respond.

‘Take them. They are for you!’

The messenger took the slippers, kissed them, tucked them under his arm and stood there hesitantly, waiting for the coins.

The shah rang his little bell. ‘Chamberlain, take this poor man with you. He is tired. Give him something to eat and a chance to get fully rested. Tomorrow he is to receive three coins from us,’ said the shah.

The messenger wanted to kiss the king’s hand, but he gave him no opportunity. The chamberlain assisted the man on his way out.

Exhilarated by the report the shah could no longer sleep. He read the vizier’s letter once again. He had been saved. He no longer needed to feel ashamed about a lost war. He picked up his diary and continued writing.

God is with us. God has never abandoned us. God has saved us. It is the middle of the night and we cannot sleep for joy. We do not know exactly what the cunning British are looking for in the southern part of our country. Raw materials, the vizier says. Raw materials in a place where the sun incinerates everything, as if it were hell. God will always be on our side. He is guiding us.

We have not lost the war. In fact we will be earning an extraordinary amount of money in customs duties.

We, the shah of Persia, announce with these words that we have embarked on a new page in our history.

We feel good again, and although it is the middle of the night, we are in the mood for a hearty breakfast.

The shah hid his diary. He needed to share his happiness with someone, but with whom? At first he thought of going to the palace of his mother, but he was the king and he had to restrain himself and wait until morning. He also thought of his advisor, Sheikh Aqasi, but he rejected that idea out of hand. There was only one person who understood him, who would be as happy as he was with this unexpected development, and that was his beloved daughter, Taj Olsultan.

The lights were out in the small courtyard of Taj’s residence, but one candle was burning in her window. He tapped gently on the door. The old servant, who knew that only the shah would come knocking at such an hour, picked up the candle, took a quick look through the little hatch just to make sure, and opened the door.

The shah walked quietly into his daughter’s bedroom. ‘Taj, are you asleep? It is we, the shah, your father.’

The girl, who looked like a young woman under the covers, turned in her sleep. She pulled the blankets up over her shoulders and kept on sleeping.

‘Taj, wake up. We have good news. The shah is happy, very happy.’

The girl opened her eyes. ‘Did something happen?’

‘Good news,’ he whispered. ‘England has abandoned the harbour. They want to do business with us.’

She hugged the shah and kissed him on the head. ‘Father, I’m so happy for you,’ she said, and she began getting out of bed.

‘Stay where you are. I want to talk with you,’ said the shah, and he knelt down on the floor beside her. ‘Listen. I was often very sad in Herat because I have no heir. If anyone there had killed me I would have had no son of my own flesh and blood to follow in my footsteps. We must quickly find a husband for you.’

‘But … but … Father, I don’t want this. It is still too soon for me,’ said Taj.

‘Nonsense,’ responded the shah. ‘We’ve told you a hundred times that your mother was just your age when she was pregnant with you.’

‘I have asked her. My mother was nowhere near as young as I am now when she married.’

The shah picked up a pillow and stretched out on the carpet. ‘I’m going to lie down here for a little while. Suddenly I feel so tired. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.’

‘Father, I’m reading Russian, French and English books. In those countries the girls don’t marry at such a young age.’

‘The stories you read are all made up. The fathers of the girls in those books are not kings. I am the king. When I die the sons I have begotten by other women will fight each other for our crown like wild dogs. They will tear the country to bits as dogs devour a deer. Think about what you are saying.’

‘I understand you, Father, but can’t you wait until I’m a little bigger?’ pleaded Taj.

The shah looked her straight in the eyes and whispered, ‘We have enemies. I trust no one — not your mother, not your grandmother, not my counsellors, not the vizier. You are the only one I trust. Do you hear me? Everyone wants to bring me down. We don’t have much time.’

He glanced towards the door to see whether the old servant was standing there. When he was sure they were alone he said, ‘Listen, the vizier wants to depose us. I have proof — documents. We’ve given him a free hand, and he is well liked by the people. But he is hatching a devious plot against us behind our back. He doesn’t know that we know everything. First we’ll let him finish the negotiations with England and Russia, and then at an unguarded moment we’ll sting him like a poisonous scorpion.’

‘Father, I don’t believe any of the things that you have told me. The vizier is an outstanding man. I like him very much. What makes you think—’