Kader Abdolah - The King

‘Exceptional,’ he said. ‘It’s as if I had landed in a fairy tale.’

Lying there he looked at the abundance of swords, boots, plates and glasses arranged on the shelves and hanging from the walls. This profusion of heavenly colour couldn’t have come from the kings and queens; it must have come from the gods. These were bits of history, of life. Fate had brought them here and preserved them. Now he must protect them and keep them safe.

‘This is the spirit of India,’ said the shah to himself, ‘the India that the British, the Russians and the French want for their own. No one is to know what lies hidden here. No one. It is ours, Persia’s.’

Sheikh Aqasi nodded and handed him the two keys.

Because the late king had had so many wives, there were hundreds of families who could claim a royal connection. Together they formed society’s noble class, and all of them sided with Mahdolia. They occupied important positions in politics, in the army and in the nation’s commerce. Almost all of them maintained secret contacts with the British and Russian embassies. The series of measures that the vizier had taken to limit the power of these families had encountered much resistance, and they had made their dissatisfaction known to the shah.

The shah had sent for the vizier to explain the situation to him. Early in the evening Mirza Kabir rode into the palace grounds on horseback. The head of the guards took his horse’s reins and helped him dismount. They then exchanged a few words, something that did not escape the shah, who was keeping an eye on the courtyard from behind the curtain.

The vizier went inside. The chamberlain greeted him, bowed his head, took his coat and brought him to the hall of mirrors.

Mirza Kabir was wearing his prime minister’s robe and his tall cylindrical hat. The gems on his clothing glittered in the light of the great chandeliers. His hands clasped behind him, he impatiently walked the full length of the hall several times, back and forth. The shah’s cat followed his pacing. Every now and then the vizier would pause before the great mirrors and look at himself. With his cylindrical hat, his robe and his long salt-and-pepper beard he bore a striking resemblance to the portrait the court painter had once made of his father. It irritated him that the shah was making him wait more often, and for longer periods of time.

The hall of mirrors was an exceptional example of power, light and eastern art. The walls were decorated with thousands of little mirrors cut in mysterious shapes. Out of sheer boredom the vizier began studying the multiple reflections of himself. Famous Persian artists had painted the walls and ceiling with war tableaux, important battle scenes from the nation’s history. Covering the floor were carpets made especially for this hall in natural shades of purple and emerald. The vizier came from the Farahan region, where the most beautiful carpets in the country — if not in the whole world — were made. He knew exactly which villages the carpets had come from. Kneeling down on one carpet of gold, green and dark blue silk, he ran his hand along the surface, feeling how fine the threads were. The shah’s cat rubbed herself against him. The vizier picked her up and stroked her head and back.

‘What a pretty jewelled necklace you’re wearing. Just like a princess.’

The chamberlain then let the vizier know that the shah was waiting for him. Mirza Kabir took one more look at his reflection and went into the shah’s conference room.

Shah Naser received the vizier in his military uniform with his hand on his sword. The atmosphere was tense. Mirza Kabir removed his hat, bowed and said, ‘Your Majesty!’

The shah turned his face and spoke with his back to the vizier. ‘Tell me what this is all about: the vizier removes certain persons from our entourage and replaces them with his own relatives. We are under surveillance in our own household.’

‘You are angry, Your Majesty. But your intelligence is incorrect. You are the heart and the brains of the country. Traitors and enemies are trying to get closer to you. It is my duty to keep them out of the palace. Whatever I do, I do for you. I am your vizier, so in your presence I may speak plainly. I always showed great respect for your father. Because you are the king I am obliged to tell the truth. The court of your late father was riddled with corrupt politicians who had only their own interests at heart. Your father was surrounded by thieves, fools, superstitious clerics and spies from England and Russia. I have dealt with them all. In doing so I made many enemies, but that does not frighten me as long as I have the shah on my side.’

‘The vizier has reduced the income of my mother and my family members by half. Are they also thieves and confederates of evil-minded forces?’

‘I hold your mother in great esteem, but with the expenses she incurs I can build factories that would provide work for your subjects. The shah is entitled to know the truth. Your mother’s palace is a hotbed of old men who are hungry for power.’

‘Watch what you say, vizier. You are talking about my mother!’ cried the shah, greatly offended.

‘I am talking about Your Majesty, about the country. It’s not personal,’ said the vizier.

‘We hear quite different rumours,’ replied the shah, this time more calmly.

‘What rumours, Your Majesty?’

‘That it is the vizier who is trying to seize power from us.’

‘Your Majesty, those are the words of my enemies. They are thirsty for my blood. I knew the shah would bring this up, so I brought a Quran with me.’

The vizier pulled the holy book from his bag. He placed his right hand on it and said, ‘I swear by this book that whatever I do, I do it for the glory of the shah. If this is not enough I will step down and the shah may appoint another vizier.’

The shah motioned to the vizier to put the Quran away. Evidently the vizier’s words had restored his trust. The shah walked to the window and pulled back the curtain slightly. He needed the vizier’s advice.

‘We have been given a letter written by my father, a very personal letter. He was distressed about Herat. He asked me to do everything I could to recapture the city.’

‘Herat is our national heartache,’ agreed the vizier, ‘but we are not in a position to drive the British out. Not only that, but times have changed. Afghanistan is a sovereign state and England has equipped all the Afghan tribal leaders with weapons. And they have stationed an Indian army in Herat. We cannot recover the city by force of arms.’

‘Is the vizier suggesting that we must abandon our beloved city to the British, the Afghans and the Indians?’ asked the shah. ‘This is not about the city. It is about our country’s honour. It surprises me that the vizier does not realise this.’

‘Certainly I realise it. There is only one solution: the path of diplomacy. We must be just as cunning and clever as the British.’

‘Every king has a mission in life,’ said the shah. ‘My mission is to reclaim the city of Herat for the nation. This we will do, at any price. I do not want to go down in history as a cowardly king.’

‘I share the shah’s sense of purpose, but Your Majesty also knows that our country has been constantly at war for the past fourteen hundred years. Our strength is exhausted. Another war would cause us to lose our honour, not to regain it. The British have all of India in their possession. It is not India that is our eastern neighbour now, but England. The Russians and the British have cannons and rifles and other war machines beyond anything we can imagine. Our army is an army of beggars. The Persians have played out their role on the battlefield. Fighting a war against our Afghan brothers is exactly what the English are hoping for. It would put an end to all our plans for renewal. I have a series of projects in the cities—’