Kader Abdolah - The King

‘Does it have to do with women?’ asked Maraghei.

‘No, not that. He’s not such a ladies’ man. He enjoys eating, smoking and drinking and the good times that go with it,’ said Amir Nezam.

‘Did he drink alcohol in public?’

‘No, not that either,’ answered Talebof.

‘Don’t keep us hanging. Tell us!’

Smiling, Talebof took an envelope from his bag and said, ‘Finally God has come to our aid. This piece of evidence may be invaluable to us.’

Talebof showed them a black-and-white photograph of a plump imam sitting on a Persian carpet, smoking a hookah and laughingly blowing out the smoke.

‘An imam smoking a hookah. What’s wrong with that?’ asked Mirza Reza.

‘That’s no imam,’ answered Amir Nezam.

‘You’re joking!’

‘It’s a Brit dressed as an imam, with a fake beard, a robe and a turban,’ Talebof continued. ‘I’m serious. This is that British director of the National Tobacco Company. He put on a turban and a fake beard as a joke. And look, he’s sitting on a Persian prayer rug with his shoes on. It’s conclusive evidence of a religious and national affront.’

‘How did you get this photo?’

‘I am not at liberty to say,’ said Amir Nezam. ‘But I’m assuming that Talebof has his contacts.’

Everyone looked at Talebof, but his lips were sealed.

‘This photo gives us something to work with,’ said Jamal Khan. ‘It may determine our entire course of action.’

It was early in the evening and still warm outside. Seated in his study on a beautiful carpet at a low table, and in the light of a lantern shaped like a red tulip, the shah was writing in his diary.

To his left, standing at a suitable distance, a servant was waving long peacock feathers to cool his damp brow. Sitting opposite him was a young chronicler who calmly dried the shah’s handwriting with an ink blotter, sentence by sentence. Standing to his right another servant with a jug of fresh albaloo juice was patiently waiting for a gesture from the shah to refill his glass.

Sometimes we forget whether we have already described certain events. There’s so much going on that we no longer have a mind to call our own. I don’t remember what I wrote about Taj’s wedding. It already seems like so long ago. But I’ll say a few words about it anyway, for besides the wedding there is even more happy news.

Our Taj was married several months ago. We held a feast in a castle outside Tehran. All the wise men of our tribe were there. Taj was distressed — we saw it in her face. But she is still young, and young girls have their own fanciful dreams.

Taj told me again she does not like Eyn ed-Dowleh. But if she has a child by him, that will change. I have discussed this with her many times, but it doesn’t do any good. This time I used harsh words. I told her she must stop all this whimpering, that it wasn’t about her but about all of us. After that she listened. I told her that we too would prefer not to be shah, but this is the way it is.

Fortunately everything went as planned. The feast was unforgettable. We have also provided her with a lovely home so later she can live a happy life.

He took a sip of juice, thought for a moment, picked up the pen and continued writing.

Now that Taj’s wedding is over a great burden has fallen from our shoulders, and we can focus our attention on other important matters.

Sometimes we do not understand what it is we can and cannot do. When we speak to the British, the Russians feel passed over. When we speak to the Russians, the British ignore us.

Yesterday that bearded Russian came to see us — I no longer remember his name. He looks quite amusing. A full beard like that is very becoming on an official. Maybe we ought to ask our public officials to let their beards grow.

The Russians brought proposals for building us a railway. They’re acting out of their own interest, of course, for we have no need of a railway. Our horses and coaches are more than adequate. Why should we start riding around on two iron rails? Our vizier, Sheikh Aqasi, agrees with us. Such changes are not in the national interest. But others have warned that we aren’t keeping up with the times, that we’re going to weaken our position with respect to our neighbouring countries, India and Turkey. We’ve been taking more walks lately to think things over, and this is why. God will lead us onto the right path: the path of those on whom He pours his mercy, not the path of those He does not favour, nor those who go astray. We are waiting for a sign from God.

In the meantime, albaloo season has arrived. The albaloos are big and red, and they hang from the branches like rubies. Our mouth waters as we write about them. This year is the year of the mouse. A mouse is filthy, untrustworthy and a bringer of calamity, so we must remain vigilant. Praise God and fear Him. Fortunately we have everything under control, and nothing has happened that we have not been able to handle.

There is more important news, but we hesitate to record it here. The glad tidings concern our daughter Taj Olsultan. Her servant has whispered something to us, a royal communication. We are not going to write about it for fear of bringing bad luck. We will wait patiently.

It is warm here. We’re going to stop writing and take a nap before the evening meal.

He waved the servants away and went to lie down, after which the chamberlain came in and pulled a thin blanket over his legs.

Soon Malijak came in with his pop gun over his shoulder. He was covered with crumbs. He had just been with the cook and had eaten a whole plateful of butter biscuits with powdered sugar. The cook was afraid of Malijak. Whenever he went into the kitchen and aimed his gun at the poor man, the cook would give him a whole plate of rich, sweet delicacies. It was the only way to keep him quiet.

‘Where were you all day?’ asked the shah.

Malijak said something unintelligible, put his gun down, crept up to the shah on his hands and knees, lay down beside him and shut his eyes. The shah stroked his head and shoulders and said with a yawn, ‘You stink, Malijak. You ought to let them wash you. Don’t be so afraid of the water. You’re not a child any more. You’re almost a man.’

Carelessly he gave Malijak a little nudge, and as he did so he laid his hand on Malijak’s jacket. He thought he could feel a piece of paper. He felt again and sure enough it was a little roll of paper.

‘What do you have in your pocket?’ he asked. He pulled the paper out of Malijak’s jacket and said sharply, ‘What is this? How did you get it?’

The shah unrolled the paper, glanced at it and shouted angrily, ‘Who gave you this? Who put this in your jacket?’

Malijak, who couldn’t bear it when anyone raised their voice, looked at the shah with fear in his crossed eyes. The shah pushed Malijak away, at which the boy burst into tears and crept behind the curtain. The shah was trembling with rage. Someone had dared to tuck a pamphlet into Malijak’s jacket. The pamphlet called on the people to rise up in revolt against the shah and the British.

He opened the window to call the head of the guards but realised it would be pointless to do so. There were so many people living in the palace, and so many who came to the palace every day, that no one would ever find out who had smuggled the pamphlet in. He would have to control himself and pretend nothing had happened.

It was dark outside and a slight breeze was blowing. He told the chamberlain he would partake of his evening meal out in the courtyard next to the pond. Instinctively he inspected his cannon, which stood in the middle of the courtyard. He strolled to the gate and made sure he was clearly visible to the guards. After that he looked at the horses through the little stable window, walked back to the pond, washed his hands and face, took off his hat and ran his wet fingers through his hair.