Kader Abdolah - The King

Because of the wars that were constantly being conducted, there was no breeding ground for scientific research or commerce. Little of value had been exported, especially over the past hundred years, and virtually nothing had been imported. But with the great changes that were taking place in the West, ships full of new British products were now stocking the bazaars. The bazaars of the northern cities were still in contact with Russian merchants and sold new products from Moscow and St Petersburg.

Because the British were in charge in the southern port, the Russians focused their energies on the northern and, to some extent, the eastern borders. They came up with a plan to renovate the harbours there in accordance with Russian standards. The Russian ambassador submitted a proposal to the shah for the creation of northern customs stations, which would earn him a great deal of money.

At first the shah wanted nothing to do with the Russians. He was still smarting from the painful experience of the Herat war. But he had no choice — and he couldn’t resist the temptation of so much money. His counsellors had advised him to stop ignoring the Russian ambassador in Tehran. They knew that the tsar was under pressure in his own country and that he was prepared to make concessions. The shah invited the Russian ambassador to meet with him.

The story of the slide had reached Moscow, and the Russian ambassador wanted to surprise the shah with his own splendid present. The shah received him with feigned indifference to make sure he understood that the betrayal in Herat had not been forgotten.

Like the British, Russia had sent one of their most experienced diplomats to Tehran to serve as ambassador. His name was Dimitri Chovolovski. He had published a book about the history of Russian — Persian relations.

After the shah and the ambassador had partaken of a cup of tea and exchanged pleasantries, Chovolovski surprised the shah with the question, ‘I have brought with me a number of portraits of the tsar’s family. Would Your Majesty like to see the photographs?’

The shah was burning with curiosity, but he nodded dismissively. Dimitri Chovolovski took from his leather case a photograph album decorated with gold ornaments, and held up a magnificent portrait of the tsar.

‘Handsome,’ said the shah. It was the only word that came to mind at that moment. However, the striking likeness of this true-to-life portrait made a deep impression on him. It was totally different from any of the portraits drawn in pencil that he had seen so far. Featured on the next page was a beautiful blonde woman with bare shoulders, undoubtedly the tsar’s wife. The shah coughed slightly into his fist and thumbed further through the book with pretended nonchalance.

‘If Your Majesty agrees I will commission a Russian photographer to immortalise the shah in his palace, as a gift of the tsar.’

The shah did not respond immediately. He put the photo album away and asked a couple of questions about Russia’s plans for the northern harbour. But it was clear from the expression on his face that he had no interest in listening to a detailed explanation from the ambassador.

When Chovolovski took out a roll of paper and began to open it to show him a drawing of the customs building, the shah could take no more. ‘Make an appointment with our vizier,’ he said.

A few months later a Russian photographer rode into Tehran in a rather unusual coach, getting out at the palace. When the liveryman came up to release his horse, the photographer made it quite clear that his help was not needed. He was an odd character with a bizarre hat, a strikingly trimmed beard and a curled moustache. He gave his horse a bit of water from a bucket he had brought himself. Then he placed a wooden feeding trough on the ground in front of the animal. Finally he walked to the pond with his hands behind his back and strolled through the gardens.

The shah had been watching him from a window. The man acted as if the palace were his own home.

The photographer had enough sense to know that he was not to ask for the shah, but that the shah would come out himself. When the shah eventually did make his appearance the photographer ignored him. The shah walked calmly down the steps. The photographer turned round, tipped his hat, bowed slightly and said, ‘Your Majesty!’

For one whole week the shah was photographed in a number of special places in the palace, as were Malijak and the shah’s ravishingly beautiful daughter Taj, who was soon to be married. The photographer also immortalised the shah with a chosen group of women, all of them veiled and dressed in burkas.

The Russian realised he was recording a chapter of Persian history, so he patiently looked for unique compositions for his photos. With his considerable powers of persuasion he was easily able to gain access to the harem. This was the first time any stranger had ever entered the building. It was all so spontaneous that even the shah never thought to stop him. Shooting a series of photos of the women, he knew his pictures were unique witnesses to an unknown world. His camera was capturing a moment in time.

There were two scenes in particular that he spent a great deal of time on. One was a group of veiled women sitting in a circle on the floor and smoking hookahs, and the other was a portrait of the shah sitting on the chair on which Cyrus, the king of kings, had once sat.

A long time after the photographer had left, a photo album for the shah was sent from Moscow to the Russian embassy in Tehran. Dimitri Chovolovski took the album, along with the contracts for the Russian — Persian customs stations, and rode to the palace with hope in his heart.

The shah thumbed through the contract, scrutinised a number of sections and asked several questions. He then laid the papers aside and said, ‘We have discussed your plans with the relevant persons. Basically we believe it is a solid proposal. Our vizier will contact you shortly. We are very pleased with the new relations between our two countries.’

After these words Dimitri Chovolovski took the photo album out of his case and handed it to the shah, who was overwhelmed by the pictures.

‘We are satisfied,’ he remarked drily.

He rang his little bell and summoned Malijak to show him his own photo.

‘That’s you, Malijak,’ said the shah.

Dimitri Chovolovski seized the opportunity to give the boy a present. ‘I have also brought a little something for your Malijak. If Your Majesty approves.’ It was a toy gun.

The shah picked up the gun, inspected it, aimed the barrel at a candle in the chandelier and shot. The gun made a loud pop, and Malijak jumped. The shah laughed.

Dimitri Chovolovski bowed his head.

After the construction work was completed, the birds recovered from the shock and began perching on the telegraph poles and cables as if they had never done anything else. It was clear from their singing that they were happy. The children were happy too. They pressed their ears against the poles and tapped them with stones to communicate with each other. It was a magical game and they never tired of it.

All the activities that in some way were related to the telegraph system seemed to give everyone renewed strength and hope. Malijak, who detested physical movement, now went everywhere shooting his pop gun at valets, servants, cooks and cats. No one dared stop him. Even Sheikh Aqasi had to watch out for Malijak when he went to see the shah. The fat boy never aimed his gun at Taj Olsultan, however. He sensed it wasn’t allowed, and Taj, moreover, had firmly drawn the line.

There was someone else from whom Malijak unquestioningly kept his distance. It was a young officer whom the shah had been summoning with quite some frequency lately. He belonged to the shah’s own tribe and bore the same surname. The officer had conducted himself with great courage in the war for Herat, which had not escaped the shah’s notice. He had given the brave officer a medal as well as the honorary title ‘Eyn ed-Dowleh’, which literally meant ‘eyes of the state’. This Eyn ed-Dowleh seemed like a most fitting husband for Taj Olsultan.