Kader Abdolah - The King

The big couch had been made ready for his dinner. But the shah wasn’t hungry. He ate a few spoonfuls of each dish and pushed the tray aside. The servants tidied everything up and brought him a hookah along with a tea set and a plate of sweets.

Malijak plucked up his courage and moved cautiously towards the couch. The shah tossed him a sugar cube. With the sugar cube in his mouth he crept up to the shah and laid his head on his lap.

It was a clear night. The moon was shining, the frogs were croaking in the gardens and the bats skimmed over the courtyard.

‘A beautiful night,’ said the shah, and he took a draw on the hookah. He patted Malijak and blew smoke into the air, which helped calm him down.

The cats began making a racket, and for a moment the shah thought of Sharmin. Raising his eyes he suddenly saw a whole stack of pamphlets flutter down from the roof. The shah pushed Malijak off his lap, turned towards the roof and roared, ‘Seize him!’

The head of the guards, who didn’t know whom to seize, took a couple of his men and hurried to the roof, but no one was there.

That same evening, and in the same moonlight, Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza rode to the city of Shiraz to meet the aged Ayatollah Shirazi. The British had used money and gifts to purchase the allegiance of the ayatollahs of all the major cities, but Ayatollah Shirazi was too old to be interested in politics any more. So the British had passed him over. Ayatollah Shirazi was seen as an independent spirit, and his authority was acknowledged throughout the country.

Shiraz lay a thousand kilometres south of Tehran. It had once been the nation’s capital, and the old Persian kings had built imposing castles and mosques there. The city’s bazaar had always played an influential role in the country’s various social movements.

Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza, disguised as merchants, entered Shiraz with a caravan and spent the first night in a caravanserai. They awoke well rested the next morning, and as evening approached they went to the city’s Jameh mosque, where the aged ayatollah himself led prayers every Tuesday.

Tuesday prayers were less well attended than Friday prayers, and the congregation consisted mostly of elderly people. The old ayatollah took his time and the elderly considered it an honour to be in attendance when he led prayers.

The two men waited for the ayatollah at the door of the mosque. He arrived on an old donkey led by a group of young imams. The small, scrawny cleric with his long grey beard got off his donkey and continued walking with the help of a stick. As soon as he entered the mosque the old men stood up and shouted, ‘ Salawat !’

Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza joined them and sat down on the floor.

In the past the ayatollah would climb up to the pulpit to give a talk, but he no longer had the strength for such an exertion. When he was finished he would meet with the representatives of the bazaar or the city officials who had something to discuss with him.

Mirza Reza shot forward, kissed the ayatollah’s hand, and said, ‘I am Mirza Reza, your disciple and the son of the late Ayatollah Kermani.’

Shirazi smiled and said, ‘God be praised. You look just like your father, like an apple sliced down the middle. Your father was a great cleric.’

‘Thank you. I am here with a friend. We have come from Tehran to discuss an important matter with you. The subject is of concern to both the nation and to Islam. We would like to have a private conversation with you, if you will allow it.’

‘If it is an important matter come to my home tomorrow afternoon before afternoon prayer,’ said the ayatollah.

The next day Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza went to his home, a simple Persian house with a pool in the middle of the courtyard and an old weeping willow that cast a shadow over a nearby bench.

The ayatollah’s servant led them to the library, where the ayatollah, seated on a carpet, was waiting for them. They took off their shoes and sat down on the floor beside him. The servant brought each of them a glass of tea and then withdrew.

The delicious fragrance of the tea and the sweet taste of the sugar cubes eased the gravity of the meeting. Shirazi took a sip of tea and glanced at Jamal Khan, who was sitting closest to him.

Mirza Reza was first to speak. He introduced Jamal Khan and gave a brief summary of his travels in many countries and of the fame he enjoyed among the intellectuals of India and the Middle East.

Then Jamal Khan took over. ‘Ayatollah,’ he said, ‘as you are probably aware, the living conditions in other countries are much better than they are here, where almost everyone is weighed down by the cares of a hard life. God will not allow Muslims to live such a merciless existence. We want to speak with you today about Islam and commerce.

‘The foreign powers, especially Great Britain, have our country and our religion in a stranglehold. Our simple merchants are going broke, one by one. Even the fabrics our women use for their veils are imported from England.’

The ayatollah listened, but he didn’t understand what they were driving at. Jamal Khan was about to enlarge on the oil reserves and the massive presence of the British in the south, but he was afraid the aged cleric would be unable to follow him and would fall asleep. So he started in on the telegraph system, since the cables ran past the ayatollah’s own home and continued to the British telegraph office in the centre of the city.

‘Ayatollah, you probably know that the British have run some of their cables right through our houses and mosques to make it easier for them to steal from our neighbour India. In India mass demonstrations against the British are being held as we speak.’

The ayatollah straightened his back and looked out the window. A telegraph cable was hanging right over the wall of his home. He put a sugar cube in his mouth and took a sip of tea.

‘The British are also hard at work plundering our country. England has already taken the Shiraz bazaar. I don’t mean to startle you, but the British have even forced their way into the home of the ayatollah.’

Much alarmed, the ayatollah put down his glass of tea and stared gravely at Jamal Khan.

‘These fragrant sugar cubes are not made from our own crops. They come from Sheffield, England. England has enriched no one but the shah, his relatives and a whole lot of politicians. The rest of the population are left in poverty and suffer from diseases that could be prevented. Who is going to show us the way out of this dreadful situation?’

Ayatollah Shirazi sat staring at them. ‘But what can I do for you?’

Jamal Khan nodded to Mirza Reza, who took his turn to speak. ‘The people of this land are like a flock of sheep that have lost their way. They need a shepherd with a staff to drive them back together.’

‘Exactly,’ said Jamal Khan. ‘We need a strong leader.’

‘We thought of you. We need you, Ayatollah,’ said Mirza Reza.

The ayatollah looked at the two men. He was speechless. He had been prepared for anything they might have said, except when they began talking about cables and sugar cubes.

In need of fresh air he picked up his walking stick and left the room. The servant accompanied him. When they reached the pool the ayatollah leaned on the servant’s shoulder and dipped his bare right foot into the water. Then he sat down on the wooden bench in the shade of the old weeping willow. After a hookah was brought to him he invited his guests to join him outside. Jamal Khan and Mirza Reza took their places on the bench next to the ayatollah.

‘I don’t know what you expect from me, but there’s nothing I can do about telegraph poles and sugar cubes,’ said the ayatollah modestly.

‘Let your voice be heard,’ said Jamal Khan.